The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (9 page)

  The blood drained from Philip's face, and she thought he was going to hit her. Instead he growled something under his breath, snatched up his clothing and marched out. It sounded very like
You'll regret that, Jakes
.

  "You have all the wit of a cow pat, and are less use withal," she shouted after him, but her words were lost in the slamming of the door.

  She gathered up the fallen garments, shook them out and hung them back up. She really shouldn't goad Philip, but one of these days she was going to wipe the smile off his simpering, beardless face.

 

The streets were becoming busy by five o'clock, as the citizens of London swarmed home for their supper. No doubt that was Walsingham's intent; one more man amongst the throng was unlikely to be noticed.

  Seething Lane lay a stone's throw from the Tower, a narrow street of tall, well-kept houses built close together to make best use of the valuable land. Second to last on the right, Baines had said, with a door knocker in the shape of a lion's head. Mal scarcely had time to lift the heavy bronze ring before the door opened and he was ushered inside.

  He found himself in a bright atrium with white-painted panelling and a black-and-white tiled floor. A wide oak staircase dominated the space, and arched doors led off into the house to either side. The man who let him in wore servant's garb, but his face bore the same guarded expression Mal had seen on Baines's face. Was there anyone working here who wasn't an intelligencer?

  "This way, sir," the man said.

  He opened a door Mal had not noticed before, concealed as it was in the panelling under the stairs. Mal half-expected to see a flight of steps running down to a dungeon. There were many rumours about what went on in the house in Seething Lane.

  Instead he was taken along a short whitewashed passage to a spacious parlour overlooking a walled garden. A gaunt-featured man of about sixty, dressed in a black gown and skullcap, sat in a high-backed chair by the fireplace.

  "Maliverny Catlyn, sir."

  Walsingham raised a hand in acknowledgment. The servant bowed and withdrew.

  "Come closer, Master Catlyn."

  Mal approached the Queen's private secretary and stood to attention, eyes fixed on the plasterwork coat of arms above the fireplace. The design was very plain: a horizontal bar on a vertically striped field. Either an ancient blazon, or one chosen by a man with no taste for the fantasies of the modern age.

  "You understand why I sent for you?" Walsingham asked. His voice was deep, and surprisingly steady for one in evident ill health.

  "No, sir." He had a shrewd idea, but he was not about to admit it.

  "Sit down, Master Catlyn." Walsingham gestured to the chair opposite.

  "I prefer to stand, sir."

  "And I prefer not to crane my neck. Sit."

  Mal obeyed. Walsingham leant back in his own chair, and Mal caught himself on the brink of doing likewise. Allowing himself to relax in this man's presence would be a grave mistake. Perhaps literally.

  "You were seen at Court on Tuesday, talking to Blaise Grey," Walsingham said.

  "He and I were at Peterhouse together. Sir."

  "Yes, well, we will come to that later. But as to the present… You would do well to take more care in the company you keep."

  "Sir?"

  "When the son of one of the most powerful men in England rebels against everything his father stands for, you can be sure it comes to my notice. Blaise Grey attracts malcontents like wasps to a wind-fallen apple. For you to seek him out… well, you must see how that looks."

  For once Mal did not have to feign contrition.

  "I'm very sorry, sir, I did not think–"

  "You young fellows never do. What precisely were you up to?"

  "I–" A half-truth was safer than a lie. "Sir James Leland didn't say how long this commission would last, and as I am sure you know, sir, I have no other means of support."

  "Hmm. Well, you would do well to seek a better patron than Grey."

  "Yes, sir."

  Walsingham folded his long pale hands in his lap.

  "What think you of the skraylings, Catlyn?" he asked, in the idle tones of a gentleman indulging in scholarly debate.

  Mal paused, wondering what answer the spymaster expected.

  "I believe they are part of God's creation," he said at last, "for the devil cannot create any living thing, only the semblance of it. I also believe that, since the Bible is the word of God and of His Son, and there is no mention of skraylings therein, the message of Christ is not meant for them."

  "Then they are damned?"

  "That is for God in His infinite grace to decide, not I."

  "A very pretty answer," Walsingham said. "But I speak of policy, not theology."

  "May I be frank with you, sir?"

  "I wish for nothing less."

  "I think they play a dangerous game," Mal replied. "They rely on fear and awe as a protection, on rumours that they possess magicks far more fearsome than the toys and fancies they show us."

  "Dangerous to themselves, or to us?"

  "Since we are allies against Spain, both."

  "Then you think Her Majesty wrong to continue this alliance?"

  "Not at all, sir." Mal swallowed. Men had had their hands cut off – or worse – for criticising the Queen. "Far better for them to be our friends than the friends of our enemies."

  "Just so. The Spanish would gladly invade England and put a Catholic on the throne if they could muster the forces to do so, the French are allied with our old enemies the Scots… If the skraylings were to abandon us and seek friends in other lands, we would be hard pressed to defend ourselves."

  "You fear the French or Spanish have designs on the ambassador?"

  "If they have not, they are fools."

  "I am already pledged to defend the ambassador with my life, sir, or will be once I take up my duties," Mal said. "Is there aught else you expect of me?"

  Walsingham looked thoughtful for a moment.

  "I knew your father, you know, in Paris. We were both at the English embassy, during the massacre on Saint Bartholomew's Day. Perhaps he mentioned it?"

  "No, he… He didn't like to talk about his work when he came home." Mal paused. "I remember, the summer before my fifth birthday, Mother bought guns for the servants and said there would be no more riding or playing cricket for a while. At the time I was just jealous that Charles was old enough to be given a gun and I was not. Afterwards, I found out she feared reprisals against Catholics."

  "You are a Catholic?" The spymaster's voice remained level, but a dangerous glint appeared in his eye.

  "My mother was. I do as my queen commands, in all things."

  "As should we all." He tapped the arm of his chair absentmindedly, then looked up, fixing Mal with his dark gaze. "Do you know why you were chosen for this commission?"

  "Sir James Leland told me it was the Queen's own command."

  "A convenient fiction. Your name was presented to me by the head of the skrayling merchant-venturers, on behalf of the ambassador himself."

  "What? How–?"

  "How did the name of an obscure country gentleman of no fortune come to the attention of the most important skraylings this side of the Atlantic? Why did they choose you, when there are so many worthier men at Court? I was hoping you could solve that conundrum for me."

  "I– I have no idea, sir." It was truth, of a sort. If the skraylings knew anything about the Catlyns, surely they would have chosen someone – anyone – else. "There must have been a misunderstanding."

  Walsingham smiled thinly. "Our dealings have been beset with misunderstandings, as I recall."

  The letter he had received at college. The one with a discreet "W" seal.

  "That letter was from you, sir?"

  Walsingham nodded, and Mal silently cursed his former naivety.

  "I thought it was a prank by one of the older students." Or worse, a trap to flush out Catholic sympathisers. "I could not believe the Queen's private secretary had any use for me. And besides, there were my studies to consider."

  "The masters at Cambridge know better than to punish those in my employ for lack of attendance at lectures," Walsingham said. "Arrangements could have been made. We did it for Marlowe, after all."

  "Kit Marlowe? But he's–" Playwright Christopher Marlowe had been killed at an eating-house in Deptford, back in May; a quarrel over the reckoning, or so rumour had it.

  "Dead? Yes. A pity. Brilliant fellow, one of the finest poets of our age." Walsingham sighed. "A shame he kept such ill company."

  His words finally sank in.

  "Marlowe was a spy," Mal said.

  "He served his queen and country." Walsingham laced his long pale fingers together. "The offer stands, Master Catlyn. Except that it is no longer an offer."

  "I see."

  "Do you?" The spymaster leant forward in his chair. "Our alliance with the skraylings is of paramount importance. If our enemies make any approach, friendly or otherwise, I need to know of it."

  "Surely, sir, you have men far more skilled than I in such matters."

  "Of course I do. Unfortunately, none will have such intimate access to the ambassador and his party as you."

  Mal groped around for a counter-argument, but could think of nothing. Damn Leland! Bad enough to be working with skraylings; now he was expected to get close to them?

  "I want to know with whom they speak," Walsingham continued, "whether any letters are sent or received, and if possible I would like those letters intercepted and copied. Baines will train you in the art of seal-cutting."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Also, you will not come here again unless instructed by Baines, do you understand?"

  "Of course, sir. A spy is of little use if it is known he is working for you."

  "Exactly."

  "Then was it not unwise to invite me here at all?"

  Walsingham smiled. "A calculated risk. I wanted to speak to you in person. And you
have
been appointed by the Crown, so what is more natural than that Her Majesty's secretary should wish an interview?"

  Mal wordlessly indicated his agreement.

  "One more thing," Walsingham said.

  "Sir?"

  "If you do find out why the skraylings asked for you, I want to be the first to know."

  "Of course, sir." Over my dead body.

  Walsingham went over to his desk and opened a drawer.

  "I understand you negotiated a retainer from Leland."

  "Yes, sir. Two shillings a day."

  "Hmm." He held out a small purse. "For your expenses in carrying out your… additional duties. I am informed you do not share your brother's vices, so that should be more than adequate."

  Mal decided it would be impolitic to count the money in front of the spymaster. "Thank you, sir."

  Walsingham rang a small bell which stood on the desk, and Mal was shown out by the manservant. In the street, curiosity got the better of him and he took out the purse. Silver crowns and half-crowns met his gaze, not a fortune but more than enough to cover his daily needs for the next few weeks. Did Walsingham know about Sandy? By "brother" Mal assumed he had meant Charles, whose gambling habits had been the stuff of gossip since Mal was a child. Still, perhaps he should not visit Bethlem for a while, just in case.

  He shoved the purse back in his pocket with a grunt of annoyance. Every time he thought his life could not possibly get any worse, Fate shat in his chamber pot again. Well, at least now he had some beer money to help him forget about it for another night. Except then Ned would want to know where the money came from. Christ's blessed mother! He stamped off down the street, cursing in every language he could remember, ignoring the stares and muttered comments from passers-by.

 
 
 

The house in Culver Alley sagged between its neighbours like a drunk on his way home. Window shutters hung askew on their hinges, or were nailed shut. The decorative plaster work over the door had turned leprous with neglect, and the door itself was pitted and scarred, as if someone had tried to batter it down on more than one occasion.

  Mal knocked. After a few moments footsteps approached the door, then after a short pause came the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door opened, though whoever had done so remained hidden behind it.

  "Come in." The voice sounded like that of Baines.

  Mal stepped inside and the door closed behind him.

  Baines led him through to a dining parlour at the back of the house, looking out over a gloomy courtyard surrounded by other equally decrepit tenements. A straggly sycamore pushed its way through the mossy cobbles, and a cloud of metallic-green dung-flies buzzed around the midden. Mistress Faulkner's neatly tended vegetable garden was a vision of Paradise in comparison.

  The room was dominated by a heavy oak table covered in the impedimenta of letter-writing: paper, ink bottles, quills cut and uncut, pen knives, a pounce shaker, sticks of sealing wax and a stub of candle burning in a pewter candlestick.

  "Your first job," Baines said. "Make a pile of sealed letters to practise on later, when the wax is set hard."

  He handed Mal a sheaf of papers, most with writing on them, and a small seal of the sort used by private persons.

  "We'll practise with these first," the intelligencer said. "Later you'll learn to cut the larger seals of state and diplomatic papers. Now get on with it; I have other things to do."

  Mal skimmed through the papers, but could make neither head nor tail of their contents. Some bore line after line of nonsense words, others had columns of pairs of letters as if meant as arithmetical exercises, though there were no totals at the columns' bases. Most, however, were in English – either everyday correspondence on a variety of subjects, or decidedly bad poetry. Mal chuckled to himself at the thought of Baines penning sonnets, then put the pages aside and set about his assigned task.