The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (51 page)

  Grey said nothing for a long moment. Coby looked up, halfexpecting him to be pleased at this reversal to his father's continued alliance with the skraylings. He was not.

  "How did this happen? Who was responsible for loading the cannon?"

  "I– I was, my lord–"

  Though she anticipated the blow, it still sent her reeling. She landed hard on both knees and the heels of her palms. Her side felt like it would gape open and spill her guts over the polished boards. Breath caught in her throat. Tears would only make it hurt more – and perhaps anger Grey further.

  "Addle-pated cull! My father is dying in agony–" Grey swept his arm across the desk, sending books and papers cascading to the floor. "I should have you flogged all the way back to London for this."

  "I am most truly sorry, my lord," she whispered.

  A booted foot caught her on the shoulder and she tumbled from the dais. In the long moment before she hit the floor, she managed to tuck her arms about her ribs and keep her head high enough to avoid cracking it on the tiles.

  As she lay there praying for Grey's wrath to subside, a pale metallic gleam caught her attention. A silver and niello button in the form of a Tudor rose, just like the ones on Master Catlyn's livery doublet. She closed her hand over it, hoping Grey hadn't noticed.

  "Get up." Grey sighed. "What's done is done. Besides, only a fool would stay in the theatre knowing the cannon was about to explode."

  "It was John Wheeler." The words came out unbidden.

  "Who?"

  "He was a hireling, a malcontent. Master Naismith dismissed him, but it seems the mischief was already done."

  Grey nodded, his expression thoughtful.

  "Stay a while, boy. Get yourself to the kitchens and ask the cook for dinner. My father will no doubt want to hear about this."

  She thanked him profusely and backed out, bowing low. A narrow escape, but worth a bruising. If Master Catlyn were still here, she now had an opportunity to find him.

  The same armed retainer showed her back out into the courtyard and thence into the kitchen in the north wing. The large room was empty of servants, though stacks of used dishes and plates suggested a meal had recently been consumed. He gestured to the leftovers laid out on the table then departed without another word. This was her chance. She looked around for another exit, since she could hardly go back out into the courtyard.

  One side of the kitchen was almost completely occupied by a brick fireplace, furnished with spits of various sizes and an oven at the side. A range stood under the window at the far end, iron bars set into more brickwork with charcoal pans beneath. The wall nearest the house was pierced by two low doors with a dresser between. Deciding that the right side was likely to be more conspicuous, since its rooms looked onto the courtyard, she padded towards the door on the left.

• • • •

After Hendricks had disappeared down the drive, Ned considered what he should do next. Even if the boy were right and Mal and Sandy were being held prisoner here, they still had to snatch the two captives from under the noses of who knew how many armed men and make their escape – in a boat moored over a mile away, on the edge of the Syon House estate.

  "Shit! Shit! Thrice-damned shit and buggery!"

  There was only one choice left. Horses. Mal could ride, and so presumably could Sandy if he put his addled mind to it. And if there was one thing a noble house had no lack of, it was horses.

  Ned had seldom had a chance to try his hand at riding. Few people of his acquaintance could afford to keep a horse, and though there were livery stables aplenty from which to hire a nag for the day, where would you take it? Everything a man could ever want lay within the bounds of the capital, or so Ned had always believed. Now he cursed his narrow horizons. There was a whole world out there – and a new world across the Atlantic – just waiting to be explored.

  Perhaps this was his day to start. He had been unwilling to ride here, but to ride back at Mal's side, triumphant, now that was a dream to be savoured. He slipped through the doors of the nearest barn. No horses here, just a lot of hay. Stables, that was where horses were kept. Or paddocks. There must be some horses out in the open in this fine weather.

  He was making his way back towards the road, thinking it a safer place to be caught than on the duke's property, when a mounted courier came thundering up the drive, heading in the same direction as the one they had seen earlier. Another so soon? His gut clenched in sudden fear. Had Hendricks been caught already?

• • • •

"Sandy, are you awake?"

  Mal squeezed his brother's hand, but got no response. They stood back-to-back around one of the pillars supporting the roof of a cellar beneath the great hall, the right wrist of each bound with thin cord to the other's left and a single length of iron chain cinched around both their throats, secured with a padlock. The weals on Mal's exposed back itched where they rubbed against the rough brickwork but thankfully the pain of his earlier torment had subsided. Blaise had been telling the truth when he said the tincture enhanced the rate of healing, though the price was not one Mal would wish to pay again.

  He looked around the cellar, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness. Faint shapes of sacks and barrels, such as could be seen in the storerooms of any great house. A flicker of movement that might be a rat. How long were they going to be left down here? Was that the "more drastic measure" Suffolk spoke of? A slow death by starvation, or to be eaten by rats? But the duke didn't look like he was in any condition to take his time over this interrogation. He wanted answers, fast. But what answers?

  Sandy stirred and moaned. "Mal?"

  "I'm here," Mal replied. His words echoed loudly from the cellar walls, and he lowered his voice. "Did they hurt you again?"

  "No. What happened? How did I get here?"

  Mal whispered his thanks to Our Lady. His brother was unharmed and lucid, at least for the moment.

  "Suffolk has us both captive," Mal replied. "He seems to think we are both possessed by a skrayling called Erishen."

  "He is right, in a sense."

  "How so?" Mal wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he needed every advantage he could lay his hands on if he was going to get them out of here.

  "You remember Erishen's death," Sandy went on, "at the hands of the Huntsmen?"

  "Yes," Mal replied, wishing he didn't.

  "And the flight into darkness?"

  "A little."

  "Erishen should have sought refuge in the nearest unborn child, but he panicked and followed the trail of the lodestone necklace stolen by his murderer. That led him to our mother. He was careless enough to seek rebirth in a woman bearing twins."

  "Careless?"

  "When skraylings are taught about rebirth," Sandy said, "they are told to avoid twins. When two bodies share the same womb, the migrating soul can lose its way, be damaged, even broken in two…"

  Two babes in one womb. It could have been him locked up in Bedlam, and Sandy free to study at Cambridge. Perhaps it would have been better that way. Sandy would have worked hard, instead of running about town with a head full of beer and dreams. But would Sandy the scholar have had an opportunity to meet Kiiren? Would he have been too poor and unworldly to pay the hospital bills? It was useless to speculate. They were both in God's hands, and He would do with them as He wished.

  "A fragment of Erishen's soul and memories lodged in you," Sandy went on, "but most are in me."

  "How do you know all this?" Mal asked. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

  "It was Jathekkil's doing. By freeing me from my iron shackles, he let Erishen loose again. At first I was lost in nightmares–" His fingers tightened on Mal's. After a moment he drew a shuddering breath and went on. "Terrible visions I would rather forget. But at last I learnt the truth."

  "Yath-il–?"

  "The man you call Suffolk. He is another like me. A skrayling in human flesh."

  "But he's not mad." At least, no more than any other wicked man.

  "He did not take a human body by accident. And he's not the only one."

  "What are you saying? There are other skraylings masquerading as humans? Who are they?"

  "I don't know. I shared Erishen's memories for only a few days, and what I saw was garbled. Perhaps given time I could tell you more, but…"

  Mal felt his brother shrug.

  "And now you are sane?"

  Sandy laughed softly. "What is sanity? Am I sane for knowing I am possessed, and by whom?"

  "I will get us both out of here, I swear," Mal said. "And if there is any cure amongst men or skraylings, I will find it."

 

Coby pressed her ear to the door, and immediately leapt back like a scalded cat. Someone, a girl by the sounds of it, was just the other side, singing quietly and slightly out of tune. A clatter of dishes followed, and the singing stopped.

  Coby returned quickly to the scrubbed oak table and began piling a slice of bread with chunks of cold mutton. She had just poured herself a cup of ale when a girl of about her own age came through the left-hand door with an armful of clean dishes. The girl paused, bobbed an uncertain curtsey and then set about putting the dishes back in their places on the dresser. She glanced curiously at Coby once or twice as she began collecting another stack of dirty tableware. Her hands were red and coarse, and still damp from her work, and her dark curls escaped from her linen cap and stuck to her forehead.

  "Haven't seen you here before," the girl said eventually.

  "I'm with Suffolk's Men," Coby replied indistinctly, chewing on a particularly gristly bit of mutton. "The theatre company."

  "You're an actor?"

  "I'm Master Naismith's – the late Master Naismith's – apprentice. Was, I suppose."

  It was not a lie; she had not said she was an actor, but the girl would no doubt assume. The girl looked her up and down, perhaps wondering what she looked like in women's clothing. A mistake. Coby quickly changed the subject.

  "You must have heard about the fire?" she asked.

  The girl nodded, wide-eyed. "Were you there?"

  "I was. I–" She was not about to confess her role in it to this wench. But if she gained her confidence, she might learn something more about Master Catlyn.

  "I had to rescue the Ambassador of Vinland from the flames," she said, congratulating herself on the girl's suitably awed expression.

  "That must have been so dangerous." The scullery maid put down the pile of plates and wiped her hands on her apron. "I'm Margaret, by the way. Only everyone calls me Meg."

  "A pleasure to meet you, Margaret," Coby replied, getting up from her seat and sweeping her best courtly bow. "I'm Jacob. Jacob Hendricks."

  Meg giggled and blushed. Coby sat down again, and began relating a version of the previous day's events that cast herself in the lead role. Years of listening to the actors' boasting had not been for naught. Meg listened in rapt attention, her dishes forgotten.

  "You are so brave," she sighed, when Coby finished, then added coyly, "I wish I had a man's heart."

  "You have," Coby assured her, meaning any woman could do as much. Too late she realised how it must have sounded to the impressionable girl. "I– I meant that you are braver than you know."

  "I wish it were so." Meg came and sat next to her on the bench. "There is a madman in this house. The screaming and moaning – it would chill the blood of the very Devil."

  "Really? Who is he?"

  "I don't know, nor care to. He was brought here a few days ago. Mistress Sheldon says he's a distant cousin of my lord Grey, but I cannot see the likeness. And then last night another arrived out of the blue, and him the very image of the first. Though if he is mad also, I have not seen it."

  "You have seen both of them?"

  Meg nodded. "I have to take them their meals three times a day. Fair turns my bowels to water, the mad one does."

  Coby hid her triumphant grin by taking a gulp of ale. "How would it be if I came with you? That would soothe your fears, surely?"

  "Oh yes!" Meg cried. "I could not be afraid with such a bold hero at my side."

  "It must be almost two o'clock," Coby said. "When do you take their dinner?"

  "By my troth, I had quite forgotten the time," Meg said. "Mistress Sheldon is taken to her bed with one of her megrims, and I have had so much to do–"

  "Come then, let's get it done, then perhaps I can help you with your work." She shook her head sadly. "I have no master now, and know not what I am to do."

  Meg scraped debris off two of the plates and set about ladling them with more of the leftovers. Coby took a pitcher and drew ale from a barrel by the door, smiling to herself. This was all going even more smoothly than she could have hoped.

  The girl led Coby back into the main house via the right-hand door, through a dining hall where an elderly steward dozed over his tankard, down a gloomy corridor and into a small parlour overlooking the river. To Coby's surprise, Meg put the plates down on the table, took the pitcher from her and caught her by the hand.

  "Come, kiss me," she murmured, slipping her arms around Coby's waist.

  Coby hesitated. She needed to keep this girl sweet if she was to help Master Catlyn, and after all, what harm could one kiss do? She bent her head and nuzzled Meg's neck, unsure of how to proceed. She had seen men and women kiss often enough, but how to go about it?

  Meg sighed and turned her head, brushing her lips against Coby's. After a moment's awkwardness their mouths found one another and worked together in languorous, instinctive pleasure. So, this was what kissing felt like. But now what? Should she break off, or was it too soon?