The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (50 page)

  Blaise drew his dagger and held it up before Mal's eyes, daring him to flinch. Mal stared right back. Blaise smiled and went round behind him. After a long moment, Blaise seized the back of Mal's shirt and slit it from neck to hem. Mal stiffened, recalling the last time he had been in this position. Blaise began to unwind the bandages.

  "One would think the skraylings inured to brutality," Blaise said in conversational tones, "considering the customs of the New World's savages. Did you know they cut out the hearts of living men as sacrifices to their gods?"

  "The skraylings, or the savages?" Mal replied, matching Blaise's nonchalant air.

  Blaise only laughed softly. "And yet they almost broke their alliance with us over a mere flogging. You must be very important to them. Or at least to the ambassador."

  "He has been… gracious," Mal said.

  "So I see." Blaise threw the last of the bandages aside. "These wounds are healing well."

  Mal watched out of the corner of his eye as Blaise went over to the table where the doctor had washed his hands. A large medicine cabinet decorated with scenes of Christ's healing miracles stood against the wall. Blaise turned the key in the lock and opened the doors wide.

  "Of course they would heal a lot faster with stronger medicine." He returned with a small glass bottle and a swab on a stick. "I'm afraid this may be a little painful."

  Mal steeled himself for the sting of
ashaarr
. The swab touched the edge of a welt, cold at first then – He bucked in his captors' grasp, barely feeling their hands tighten on his arms as a thousand white-hot needles pierced his raw flesh. The pain echoed through the halls of his body like a gunshot, leaving him breathless and shaking.

  The duke spoke for the first time since Mal had entered the room, in a voice faint but steady.

  "Who are you?"

  "Maliverny Catlyn, of Rushdale."

  The duke glanced over Mal's shoulder. Another touch, another searing wave of pain.

  "Not your Christian name. The creature inside you."

  Mal shook his head, then ground his teeth together as Blaise applied the swab once more. Was this how they tortured Sandy? There had been no outward sign of harm, but now Mal's imagination was conjuring the effect of this tincture on a man's innards. Bile rose in his throat.

  "No matter," the duke said. "I know already. You are Erishen. Both of you."

  Mal stared at him. How could that be? And yet he knew it for the truth. He remembered dying at the hands of the Huntsmen, because he
was
Erishen. A sob escaped his lips.

  The duke chuckled drily, a spasm that soon turned to wheezing coughs. Blaise left off tormenting Mal for a moment and handed his father a goblet.

  "Damned fire," the duke gasped, when he had his breath back. "So, Erishen, what were you up to in Derbyshire? Looking for old friends?"

  Mal squinted at him, distantly aware that he had bitten through his own lip and blood was running down his chin. "Friends?"

  Blaise applied the swab. When Mal's vision cleared, the duke was leaning forward in bed, his eyes fever-bright.

  "What did you find out?"

  "Nothing," Mal hissed.

  After that, time dissolved into a series of fractured moments strung together with a thread of agony. Questions repeated over and over, for which he had no answer nor explanation. Was Suffolk a Huntsman, trying to find out if his comrades' secrets had been breached? Or an agent of the Crown, attempting to ferret out the skraylings' true purpose? It scarcely mattered. He tried to pray, but the words would not come. A lullaby ran round and round in his head and, underneath the alien words, a soft voice calling him
amayi
. Beloved. He clung to the memory like a drowning man.

  His torment was interrupted by a new voice and a stir of motion around him. Lifting his head Mal saw the young retainer Ivett, his face pale and eyes carefully averted from the scene before him.

  "Letters for you, Your Grace," Ivett said. "By separate couriers from London."

  The duke beckoned the man over and held out his hand, then waved him away absentmindedly as he perused the contents.

  "Another pompous missive from Northumberland," he said after a few moments. "He wishes to commiserate with me on the loss of the theatre. Hypocrite. And a note from my wife, enquiring into my health. I am afraid I shall have to disappoint her." He tossed them onto the counterpane. "Now, where were we?"

  Mal drew himself up to his full height and spat blood in Suffolk's direction. Blaise leaned in close, his breath hot in Mal's ear.

  "You're probably thinking," he murmured, "that sooner or later I'm going to run out of welts. And you're right. Fortunately you have a great deal more skin. And if you think this stings on half-healed wounds, just imagine what it feels like on newly flayed flesh."

  "Enough, Blaise," the duke said with a peremptory gesture at his son. "Take Master Catlyn downstairs, and his brother also. I fear that more drastic measures are needed."

 

By the time they reached the London road, the sun was at its zenith. Ned sighed with relief to be out in the open again, on well-ordered terrain under the dominion of Man.

  "I swear you led us thrice in a circle," Hendricks muttered, picking burrs out of his stockings.

  "Well we're here now," Ned replied. "Come on."

  He took the remains of their breakfast loaf from his satchel and tore it in two, suddenly aware of how hungry he was after his exertions. And how sore. Muscles ached in parts of his body he didn't know had muscles. What he wouldn't give for Gabe's gentle ministrations right now…

  They set off westwards down the dusty road. He hoped this turned out to be a wild goose chase, a misunderstanding by a foolish besotted boy. If Hendricks was right and Suffolk had both Mal and Sandy captive as part of some insane conspiracy, things were going to get difficult. What did the boy expect them to do, against the duke and all his wealth and power?

  "Do you not think it odd," Hendricks said around a mouthful of bread, "that Northumberland is Suffolk's close neighbour on the Strand, and now he looks set to do the same here?"

  Ned shrugged. "Rich men flock around the Prince of Wales, and build their houses close to the royal palaces. Northumberland and Suffolk are two of the richest, so of course you find them together."

  The road passed some three-quarters of a mile north of Syon House, running along the edge of its fine parkland. Despite Ned's fears they were not stopped nor even taken much notice of. This close to London there was always plenty of traffic on the roads in fine weather, and two servants going about their masters' business were nothing remarkable.

  After about half a mile they came to a crossroads. A newlooking milestone marked 'London xi miles Winchester lviii miles' jutted out of a patch of raw earth. They turned left towards Twickenham, following a farmer's wagon laden with straw. Ned glanced at his companion, who grinned back. Breaking into a run they caught up with the wagon and scrambled aboard.

  "How far is it now?" Ned asked, leaning over the side of the wagon and staring southwards.

  "Master Dunfell told me it was right across the river from Richmond Palace, so it can't be far." Hendricks pointed southeastwards. "Look, are those not the palace towers?"

  The wagon lumbered onwards. At last it drew level with the palace, and the two of them slipped down from their perches and into a dry ditch by the roadside. The traffic here was thinner; less chance of being seen, but more chance of being stopped if they were. A flash of blue and white in the distance alerted Ned in time, and he pulled Hendricks into the hedgerow.

  "One of Suffolk's retainers," he hissed.

  They crouched in their hiding place, watching the road ahead. A few moments later a mounted courier rode past at a steady trot, a satchel flapping against his hip.

  "Suffolk's household must be in uproar," Ned whispered, "wondering why his lordship has come all the way out here with such a great wound."

  When the road was clear again, they made their way cautiously southwards. Soon they came to a pair of tall wrought-iron gates surmounted by gilded unicorns. An avenue lined by slender elms curved into the distance, drawing the eye and tempting the feet to follow.

  "Not that way!" He grabbed Hendricks' arm. "Let's see if we can get closer without being seen."

  He led the boy further down the road, and soon they came to a much smaller track leading to a cluster of farm buildings. They slipped from one to the other, keeping a wary eye out for farmhands. Probably they were all sitting in the sun, enjoying a jug of ale and digesting their dinners before getting back to work. Ned licked his dry lips. A pint would go down perfectly right now.

  He stopped and peered around the corner of a barn towards the distant manor-house, waiting for Hendricks to catch up.

  "This would be much easier if Gabriel were here," Ned grumbled.

  "Why?" Hendricks asked, leaning back against the wall. He looked as though he was going to throw up.

  "He could dress up as a maidservant," Ned replied, pointing towards some bushes where laundry was drying, "and get into the house unnoticed."

  Hendricks rolled his eyes. "That's rank folly. He would never pass."

  "Gabriel was the finest actor of women's roles in London, in his youth."

  "And now stubble gilds his cheeks and his voice has dropped an octave. Besides, how many servant girls talk like queens or goddesses?"

  Ned stared into the distance, lost for a moment in memory. "I first saw him as Venus, you know, when he was with the Admiral's Men. 'For Dido's sake I take thee in my arms, and stick these spangled feathers in thy hat. Eat comfits in mine arms, and I will sing–'"

  "Hush!" Hendricks elbowed him in the ribs.

  "You have a better idea?"

  "I shall just walk up to the house and present myself," Hendricks replied. "I am still one of Suffolk's Men, and therefore the duke's servant. Since our company is now in sad need of a master, surely it is not so strange that I should seek him out here?"

  "That is a very dull plan."

  "At the very least I can look about the house, as much as I dare. We still have no proof Master Catlyn and his brother are here. If they are not, we can return to London and no harm done."

  "And if they are?" Ned asked.

  "Then…" Hendricks looked glum. "Then we need a real plan."

 
 
 

Coby walked along the avenue towards Ferrymead House, her heart pounding. If Master Catlyn's guess was right, she was about to step into a den of villains and traitors who would stop at nothing to conceal their plot. Still, she could not back out now, not with his life riding on the success of their mission.

  After a few minutes the house came into view. Red brick wings extended from an older stone building, joining in front to form an elegant modern gatehouse with a stucco panel depicting the Suffolk coat of arms. Above the gatehouse blue-and-white pennants stirred listlessly in the breeze.

  She drew a deep breath and walked towards the gates, which stood half-open. A man in Suffolk livery emerged from the darkness within, a loaded crossbow aimed at the ground. Coby froze, praying her face did not betray her.

  "Who goes there?"

  "J-J-Jacob Hendricks, of Suffolk's Men, with an urgent message for His Grace."

  "My lord Suffolk is too unwell to see anyone."

  Her heart sank. Was their plan to be thwarted so quickly?

  "Wait," the man said. "Is this about the playhouse, the one that burnt down?"

  "Yes," she replied. "I bring grave news that his lordship will want to hear as soon as possible."

  "You'd better come in."

  He led her across the courtyard and into a dark-panelled entrance porch. Coby's footsteps whispered on the terracotta floor-tiles as she followed the man through the passageway beyond and into the great hall. The bare stone walls and elaborate hammerbeam roof belonged to a bygone age, as did the crossed polearms of antique design that were its walls' only decoration. A modern marble fireplace had been added along one side, but it remained a cold, gloomy space, even on a bright summer's day.

  On the dais at the far end of the hall, Blaise Grey sat at a long table, flicking rapidly through the pages of a small fat book bound in red leather. He showed no sign of awareness of her presence, even when the retainer announced her in a voice that echoed from the high ceiling. Grey dipped his pen in his inkwell, appearing to copy something from the book onto a sheet of paper. Coby approached slowly, wondering what task could be so absorbing.

  At last Grey put the pen down, sanded the sheet he had been working on, and looked up. His face was drawn, as if he had not slept in many hours, and stubble darkened his cheeks above a gold-bronze beard. Eyes grey as the river in winter raked her features.

  "You are the boy from the theatre."

  "Yes, my lord."

  Grey beckoned her over. "I was told you have urgent news for my father. About the fire?"

  She approached the dais. The surface of the table was a few inches below her eye-level, and she stared at it rather than endure that cold gaze any longer. Grey swiftly gathered up the papers he had been working on and closed the book, as if not wanting her to catch even a glimpse of their contents. Curiosity roused, she mounted the steps at the end of the dais and swept a low bow.

  "Yes, my lord." She clasped her hands behind her back to stop them shaking. "Master Naismith is – is dead, my lord, and Master Rudd, and the theatre burnt to the ground. We are ruined."

  She could not help glancing sidelong at a sheet of paper protruding from underneath the book. It was covered in strange symbols like nothing she had ever seen before. A cipher? Mathematics? Or just nonsense, like the fanciful glyphs on magicians' robes?