The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (56 page)

  "And my friends?"

  "They must go home. I cannot allow them into camp." Seeing Mal's frown, he added, "I can have them escorted to guild house, if you wish, and guarded by my own men."

  "Thank you, sir. It would ease my mind greatly." He smiled at Hendricks, and she attempted to smile back, not very successfully.

  Kiiren went out onto the deck to await the captain's return. Hendricks lifted Mal's hand and pressed his knuckles to her cheek, closing her eyes against the tears beginning to form.

  "Sssh," he murmured, and pulled her closer with his good arm.

  He kissed the top of her head chastely. Her hair smelt of smoke. Was it only yesterday that they had escaped the fire together? And now they had outrun death a second time, only to part after all. She would be much safer without him, that was for certain. Besides, what could he offer a woman? He had no property or fortune, no means to support a family. And to cap it all, he had made an enemy of the Prince of Wales. At this rate he would be lucky to get out of England alive.

  Looking up he saw Ned standing at the curtained entrance, staring at them, and realised what this must look like. He almost pushed Hendricks away, but checked himself. He owed Ned nothing. Let the wretch think what he liked, at least for now. It was up to the girl to tell the others, if and when she was ready.

  At last all was arranged, and there was nothing left but to make his farewells. He shook hands with Gabriel and Ned. The latter winked at him, irrepressible as always. Last of all he turned to Hendricks. After a moment's hesitation she slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him briefly, then retreated in embarrassment.

  "God be with you, Catlyn," Gabriel said.

  Mal inclined his head in thanks, pulled back the curtain and stepped out onto the open deck. The light was fading fast, and the crowds had dispersed to their homes. A wherry bobbed close to the barge's prow, with two royal guards in the stern, partisans held stiffly at attention. As Mal stepped aboard he recognised Baines at the oars. The intelligencer gave a slight shake of his head, and began to row.

  Mal looked back towards the barge. He was glad that Kiiren had found what he came here for, but his joy would be short-lived. As soon as it could be done, Mal would have that creature driven from Sandy's body, and all would be well again.

 

Mal was escorted through the maze of Whitehall Palace to a modestly furnished parlour far from the great chambers of state. Walsingham was seated at the head of a polished oak dining table, his gaunt features luminous as alabaster in the candlelight.

  "Well, Master Catlyn," Walsingham said when the guards had left. "You have stirred up quite a hornet's nest this day."

  "That was not my intent, sir."

  "No?"

  The spymaster gestured towards the door. Mal turned to see Baines shooting the bolts into place. His gut tightened in fear, and for an instant the dizziness brought on by Kiiren's sleeping draught seemed to have returned. Was Walsingham another guiser, a skrayling behind a mask of human flesh? He thought not, but there was no way to be sure.

  "Sit down, Catlyn," Walsingham said, less gently this time.

  Mal did so, though all his instincts bade him run. The spymaster's dark eyes scanned his face.

  "I trust we have the right brother," he said at last.

  "Shall I show you Monkton's handiwork?" Mal asked. "It's still fresh."

  He realised at once he had said the wrong thing.

  "What were you thinking?" Walsingham hissed, leaning forward. "Abandoning your post to chase off after your brother?"

  He nodded to Baines, who came up behind Mal's chair, placed a hand on his left shoulder and squeezed. Mal gasped as spears of agony drove through his flesh, and ground his teeth together in an effort not to cry out.

  "I was abducted."

  "By witchcraft?" Walsingham's eyes gleamed with Puritan zeal.

  "I don't know." Mal swallowed, throat tinder-dry. He had no proof of anything that had happened. After all, it had just been a dream, hadn't it? "All I know is, I went to sleep in the Tower and woke up in Ferrymead House, incarcerated with my brother."

  "You think someone broke into the ambassador's quarters, drugged you and smuggled you out, all unnoticed?"

  "St Thomas's Tower looks out over the river, sir. And I may have left the window open. The nights have been muggy of late."

  Walsingham's eyes narrowed. "What happened after that?"

  "I… I was taken before Suffolk and tortured for information."

  "What information?"

  "I don't know."

  Baines squeezed again. Harder. The edges of Mal's vision darkened, and his left arm began to twitch uncontrollably.

  "S-s-something to do with Derbyshire, and, and skraylings. I think they wanted to know what I knew about the Huntsmen."

  Mal feigned breathlessness whilst his thoughts ran ahead. Well, half-feigned anyway. Walsingham gestured to Baines, who fetched a cup of wine from the table and pushed it into his good hand. Mal gulped at the sour liquid, but it was pulled away before he could manage more than a mouthful.

  "Suffolk trying to curry favour with the skraylings, eh?" Walsingham said, steepling his hands.

  "No, sir. I think Suffolk is one of them. A Huntsman, I mean."

  It was a risky gambit, but if Walsingham did not already know who and what Suffolk was, he would not hear it from Mal. The spymaster's reaction to any talk of magic told him that such an accusation would not be welcome.

  Walsingham shook his head. "I cannot believe it. He has always spoken out in support of our skrayling allies. If it were his son you accused, that would be another matter."

  "Suffolk and his son have been working together all along, sir. It was Blaise who was my tormentor."

  "So you attacked the father, and slew the son to boot."

  "Blaise is dead?"

  The spymaster glanced at Baines, but this time Mal was too quick. He leapt to his feet and put more than an arm's reach between himself and his captors. Just enough truth to be believable, that was what Baines had taught him.

  "I swear to you, Sir Francis, upon my mother's soul, His Grace the Duke of Suffolk is a traitor working against our alliance with the skraylings. He plots to put another on the throne of England."

  He stood there, panting, his every breath pulling at his shoulder wound until he thought it must bleed afresh. Baines crouched into a fighter's stance, but Walsingham waved him back.

  "That is a very serious accusation, Catlyn," he said softly.

  "I know, sir. I would not voice it if I did not believe it to be true."

  "Do you have proof?"

  Mal shook his head. "No, but the ambassador believes me. His people are… not unacquainted with the Huntsmen's handiwork. He will vouch for the fact that my brother suffered hideously at their hands."

  "Ah, the ambassador. Then he remains our ally? You found no sign of collusion with our enemies?"

  "None, sir."

  Walsingham nodded. "Good. I do not think the prince wishes to offend the Vinlanders, and if Suffolk is in any way guilty…" He spread his hands.

  Mal let out a long breath. Baines was still watching him suspiciously, but without Walsingham to back him up the intelligencer could do nothing.

  "You will remain in custody–" Walsingham began.

  Mal froze.

  "–in my home, under house arrest," he went on, "until such time as this business with the skraylings can be smoothed over. Baines?"

  "Thank you, sir," Mal said, relief washing over him. At least he wasn't being sent to the Tower.

  Walsingham waved him away, and Baines drew back the bolts on the door, a sour look on his face.

  "Nice move, college boy," the intelligencer said as they walked back through the palace.

  "What do you mean?" Mal asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  "Throwing it back on the skraylings. Gets you off the hook, gives them a way to placate His Highness. You'll go far in this business."

  "You think Walsingham will employ me again, after what I've done?"

  Baines laughed. "He likes men with guts. Just don't get too big for your boots, all right?"

  Mal nodded. He had not even considered a career as an intelligencer until now; there had been too much else to think of in the past couple of weeks. Secrets, lies and a blade in each hand: wasn't that what he'd excelled in, all these years?

 
 
 

Mal sat in the window of the guest chamber, picking out a melancholy galliard on his lute. Say what you like about Walsingham, he was gentleman enough to send for Mal's belongings from the Tower. No doubt Baines had pawed through them, but it was a small price to pay. At least the rosary was safely hidden at Ned's house.

  A sudden knock at the door made Mal start, and his fingers slipped on the lute strings.

  "Come in," he said.

  Baines opened the door, but did not enter. "Walsingham wants to see you."

  Mal went down to the parlour and found Walsingham seated at the table, poring over a map. Mal coughed politely, and waited. After several minutes Walsingham looked up and beckoned him over.

  "Suffolk is dead," Walsingham said without preamble. "The doctor says it was blood fever, from the leg wound."

  "Common enough," Mal replied, trying to keep his voice as calm and level as the spymaster's. Certain as he was that Suffolk had taken his own life, he could hardly tell Walsingham that. "I've seen men half his age succumb in less time."

  "Indeed. Which means we have only His Grace's word for what happened."

  "But – Ah. You mean Blaise. He lives?"

  Walsingham inclined his head. "Doctor Renardi was able to save him, though he is sorely wounded and may not rise from his bed for many weeks. He was not too ill to speak of his own part in this, however."

  Mal stiffened, wondering what was coming next.

  "Grey is young and hot-headed," Walsingham went on, "but apparently not as wild as we were led to believe. He claims that only obedience to his father's wishes made him espouse views against the skraylings, and that he is loyal to Prince Robert and the Queen. In view of this filial loyalty, Her Majesty has been prevailed upon to spare him a decree of attainder."

  The cunning devil. It was the truth, in so far as it ran. And Mal could not contradict it without revealing everything he knew about the late duke. Did Blaise still refuse to believe Mal's claims that his father was possessed by a skrayling? Almost certainly. Mal would never have believed them himself a month ago.

  "Did he say anything else?" Mal asked.

  "Only that one of the Catlyn brothers attacked him, but he confesses he cannot be certain which one. And since the Crown cannot bring a case without a suspect, that is an end to the matter."

  Odd. Blaise must surely remember fighting Mal, unless the blood loss from his injury had weakened his mind. Or someone had persuaded him that he did not want Ambassador Kiiren as an enemy.

  "Then I am free to go?" Mal asked.

  "So it seems," Walsingham replied. He picked up a leather purse that lay on the table. "I think you will go far in Her Majesty's service."

"Sir?"

  "Do not look so surprised. Your methods may have been unorthodox, but by exposing Suffolk as the leader of the Huntsmen you have cut the heart out of a dreadful conspiracy."

  Mal wished it were true. But if Suffolk were dead, he had failed after all. And the Huntsmen remained untouched.

  "A pity we did not catch more of them," Walsingham added.

  "Oh? I hoped–"

  "That Wheeler and his confederates were Huntsmen? So did we all. Alas they knew nothing. A band of petty malcontents: failed actors, tradesmen whose crafts have been superseded by skrayling wares, those sorts of fellows. Naught they could tell us led back to known Huntsmen's crimes."

  "A pity indeed," Mal said, hoping his relief did not show. Wheeler's hysterical ravings had meant nothing then. It was a small consolation. Very small.

  Walsingham slid the purse across the table. "A reward for loyal service."

  Mal loosened the strings and looked within. The purse contained at least five pounds in gold angels. Not a king's ransom, but more than he had seen in a good long while.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Do not thank me. That is a gift from Her Majesty. As you say, your dealings with the ambassador have been very… cordial, to the great benefit of our realm."

  Mal nodded. The Queen was notoriously miserly, but she regarded the defence of England as her highest duty.

  "Tell me, Catlyn. When you were working for the ambassador, were you approached by anyone?"

  "I–"

  Walsingham held up a hand. "Do not lie to me. I know you were."

  "The Spanish," Mal said after a moment. "And the French."

  "Only those two?"

  "So far."

  "Hmm, I suppose your position was curtailed somewhat early." Walsingham folded his long hands together. "Did either of them make any offers that we could use to our advantage?"

  Mal considered. The promptings of the Spanish ambassador, to convert the ambassador to Christianity – and Papism – cut too close to treason, but the French… "I was offered property in France, sir. Some legal fiction to do with my mother."

  "Really? How interesting. What was your reply?"

  "That if it were brought before an English court, I would be glad of it."

  Walsingham laughed sharply. "You are your father's son after all. Well, I suggest you speak again to the ambassador's man, and tell him you have changed your mind."

  "Sir?"