The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1

by Anne Lyle

  "Of course. We honour your customs." Kiiren looked thoughtful. "Day of sun. So many of you humans revere sun in different ways, yes?"

  "We do not revere the sun as the pagans of old did," Mal replied, trying to shake off his melancholy. A discussion of history would perhaps take his mind off his troubles. "But we kept their names for the days of the week. You know about the gods of the Greeks and Romans?"

  "I speak of humans that live near my homeland."

  "I have heard rumours," Mal said. He leant forward, hoping to learn something of use to Walsingham. "Beyond Antilia, a mighty empire rich in gold."

  "Always it is gold with humans." Kiiren gave a hissing laugh. "Gold, tears of sun… And yet you Christians still not agree if sun travel round earth, or earth round sun."

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the hiss of steam and the distant strains of Vinlandic music.

  "Last night…" Mal began cautiously. "Last night you said it was unwise to take my earring out, but that I would come to understand."

  "It was not safe for you to join us." Kiiren lowered his voice. "The others may have set spies amongst the clan. And even if they have not, the elders must not know about you. Not yet. As soon as you came amongst us, I hurried to conceal you. I am sorry if I hurt you, but it was needful to be swift."

  Mal felt none the wiser after this "explanation", but he let it pass. Kiiren had just admitted there were factions amongst the skraylings and that they spied on one another, just like the nations of Christendom. That fact alone was a useful titbit to take back to Walsingham. The strange vision of the mists, on the other hand, was not something to reveal to the spymaster, at least not yet. The skraylings had powerful magics, that was clear, but he needed to know more.

  Recalling the vision brought another memory to mind: his conversation with Kiiren before the meeting. Light of my soul, the ambassador had said. Perhaps it meant something different to skraylings.

  "This is something to do with Erishen," Mal whispered.

  Kiiren produced a wooden box from which he took two small cups carved from lapis lazuli. Mal stared at them. The skraylings valued the deep blue stone more highly than gold, and these cups comprised enough to buy a fleet's worth of skrayling cargo. Kiiren whisked the contents of the pot again, then poured the foamy brown liquid into the cups.

  He passed one to Mal. "What believe your people is happen to them after they die?"

  Mal hesitated, wondering what to make of this sudden change of topic. He took a sip of his drink.

  "What is this?" he asked, trying not to pull a face.

  "We call it shakholaat," Kiiren replied. "It is good for weariness, of body and spirit."

  Mal took a longer drink. The hot, bitter liquid was definitely an acquired taste. His mouth began to tingle slightly. The stuff must be spiced with the hot pepper the skraylings loved so much.

  "Their souls pass on," he said, returning to the question Kiiren had posed, "to whatever destination God deems fit: Heaven, Purgatory, or Hell."

  "I hear much talk of Heaven and Hell," Kiiren said, "but what is this… Purgatory?"

  "It is a place – some say a great mountain on the other side of the world – where the souls of those who did not turn away from God in life, but who are yet too sinful to enter straight into Heaven, are purged of their sins so they might be fit to enter therein."

  Kiiren smiled and nodded politely, but said nothing.

  "You do not have similar beliefs?" Mal asked.

  "Beliefs, no. There are things we know as fact." He put his cup down, and leant towards Mal, hands clasped in his lap. "We have no stories of afterlife, as you call it, no Heaven or Hell, no Purgatory. When man dies, his spirit is gone. Like candle flame." He made a gesture, touching his fingertips together with his hand pointing upwards, then spreading them suddenly, like a flame dispersing into smoke. "But there are those amongst us whose spirits are strong, and they can be born again and again. If they find mortal shell."

  "Pythagoras believed as much, though Christians call it heresy," Mal said, trying to frame his argument in terms that would not offend. "My people are… not tolerant of other faiths."

  "And yet there is disagreeing between Christians, is there not? Some follow Great Father in city beyond Inner Sea, and some defy him."

  Mal guessed he was referring to the Pope.

  "That is true. For fifteen hundred years we were one Christendom; but in the last few generations, everything has changed."

  "This does not please you."

  Mal couldn't help but glance around the tent, fearful they were somehow being overheard – and not by skraylings. Foolishness. If there was anywhere in London they could speak freely about religious matters without some informant overhearing, it was here.

  "My mother was of the Old Faith," he said. "She taught us – she taught me to follow the old ways, but it had to be in secret. The Pope – the Great Father of whom you spoke – declared Queen Elizabeth a heretic and urged his followers to kill her. As a loyal Englishman I cannot of course condone this, but anyone of the Old Faith is suspect. I have no choice but to obey the edicts of the Established Church."

  "And if Church say we are demons?"

  Mal drew a deep breath. "If I may be honest with you, sir, a month ago I would have said they were right."

  "And now?"

  "Now I am not so sure. You do not seem like demons to me. Of course the theologians would say this is merely a clever deceit of yours, that in hiding your true nature you prove your demoniacal power… but in truth I could never follow such subtle logic. I have not the wits for it."

  Kiiren smiled. "I am glad you not think us demons. We are friends, yes?"

  Mal nodded cautiously. He could not help but like the young skrayling, even if half the time Kiiren's conversation made no sense. Perhaps in time he could tease out more of the skraylings' secrets, but only if he retained the trust of his one ally amongst them.

  He raised his cup in salute.

  "Friends, yes."

  As soon as the city gates were open, Coby ran back to Thames Street and told Master Naismith about the intruder. Then she went to St Augustine's church as was her custom, and afterwards ate dinner with the Kuypers, one of the Dutch families of her acquaintance. As Master Kuyper was wont to remind her, the Lord's Day was for contemplation, not worldly matters. It was a relief to forget about the theatre for a while and enjoy the simple company of friends.

  She knew she could not long avoid the events of last night, however, and late afternoon found her returning to Thames Street on reluctant feet. Though she was glad to have prevented the theft, she felt guilty about injuring Wheeler; men did not always recover from such hurts.

  Master Naismith called her into his study as soon as she got back. He was sitting by the fire, reading by the light of a single candle. The shadows carved deep lines in the old man's features, and for a moment Coby recalled the lamplit visage of the masked intruder.

  Naismith looked up.

  "I wanted to thank you again, lad, for catching that viper in our bosom," he said. "We are well rid of the cur."

  "What has been done with him, sir?"

  "He has been handed over to the sergeant of the watch and thrown in the Compter to await trial. Perhaps," he added with a humourless smile, "they should have put him in the Clink, where his erstwhile master could watch over him."

  "Wheeler was working for Henslowe?"

  "He admitted as much, when pressed."

  "Then he has regained his wits," she said with relief.

  "Such of them as he ever possessed. He still claims to have no memory of yesterday afternoon or evening, but he did recall Henslowe offering to pay five pounds to anyone who could obtain the manuscript."

  "Five pounds?" That was barely half what Lodge had been paid for the play.

  "It's a lot of money to a poor player like Wheeler," he said. "Enough to tempt even an honest man to crime."

  "But why steal the sides now? We have had the play for a
lmost three weeks, and the contest begins a few days hence – surely it is too late for the Admiral's Men to profit by it now?"

  Naismith shrugged. "Perhaps it was done principally to cause mischief, with Henslowe's reward only a side bet. Better to do that as near the performance as possible, no?"

  "But why would he want to harm us? It makes no sense for a man to bite the hand that feeds him."

  "Who knows why anyone of these dissident fellows chooses to do a thing? There are Puritans enough who will pay their penny entrance fee to the latest play, just to have something new to rail against."

  He got to his feet and put the book back on its shelf. It was not the Bible, as would be most fitting for the Lord's Day, but A Mirror for Magistrates, an old book of poems examining the lives – and falls – of England's great men, including kings and dukes. Coby wondered if Master Naismith had been seeking the libeller's inspiration in its pages.

  "You think Wheeler wrote the poem as well?"

  "Probably. Half these actors are would-be playwrights, are they not?"

  "But you did not ask him?"

  "I thought it best not to mention it. The fewer people who know, the better. Besides, it is too much of a coincidence for us to be the target of two enemies at once. No, trust me, the villain is caught and our troubles are over."

  Coby nodded, wishing she could be as certain.

  "P-perhaps I should continue as nightwatchman anyway, sir," she said.

  "No need for that now, lad," Master Naismith replied, patting her on the shoulder. "You shall have the reward of your own bed after this."

  She smiled, grateful at the reprieve. Though she was still not convinced their troubles were over, she was not keen to spend another night in the empty theatre.

  "What about Master Parrish?" she asked.

  "If he wants to stay, he can sleep in the storeroom," Naismith replied. "Or the barn. Don't trouble your head about him, lad."

  A final niggling thought prompted her to ask: "How did Wheeler get in, sir? The doors were all still locked and bolted on the inside as I had left them, and I doubt he would have blocked his own escape thus."

  "Wheeler confessed to me that he hid in the under-stage and did not leave with the others after the rehearsal. There was no need for him to break in."

  Coby stared at him. "He was there all along?"

  She shivered. What if he had come up whilst she was taking off her corset? That had been a foolish risk to take, to assume she was alone. Had Wheeler known she was upstairs? Perhaps not. As a hireling, he was not privy to the company's secrets: the regular actors had been warned to say nothing about the poem to anyone, and the whole purpose of Coby's watch had been to catch the miscreant in another attempt, not to scare him away. Wheeler must have assumed the theatre was empty that night and everyone gone home to their beds like good Christians.

  "Do not blame yourself," Master Naismith said. "I should have kept a sharper eye on the hirelings and made certain they all left at the end of the day. I will not be so blind a shepherd in future."

  Coby thanked him and made her way up to her attic room. Tonight she would sleep fully clothed, whatever the weather.

  She knelt by her narrow bed and said her prayers: for her family, wherever they might be, for her Dutch friends, and Master Naismith and his family. And for Master Catlyn, standing between the ambassador and who knew how many wicked assassins. There would be no heroic swordplay, she feared; traitors preferred the subtlety of poison, or a close-wielded knife. Even Caesar could not escape such a fate… She shook the thought away. Worrying would not make Master Catlyn any safer. Her only concern for the next few days was to ensure that Suffolk's Men were dressed and on stage when their cues came, so they could do their best to win this contest.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Ned arrived outside Bethlem Hospital just as St Botolph's was tolling ten. He felt as if the forged document tucked inside his doublet were glowing like a beacon, pointing him out as a counterfeit and a betrayer of his friend. He knew that, regardless of Mal's absence, he should go and confess to his involvement in this plot, but he was afraid Kemp would find out and get to his mother in his absence. Besides, the Lieutenant of the Tower would probably have him tortured, just to make sure he wasn't holding anything back.

  He was starting to think the risk of torment might be worth it if it meant getting out of this mess, when a coach drew up outside the hospital and Kemp and Armitage got out. Kemp was dressed as a lawyer again. Ned recalled the two men standing in the doorway right behind his mother, and his nerve deserted him.

  "Right then," Kemp said. "Let's see the paperwork. Yes, very good. This'll do nicely."

  "I've done my bit," Ned said. "Now let me go home."

  "I haven't finished with you yet, Faulkner, not by half. You just come along with us, and keep your mouth shut until I say the word."

  Kemp walked up to the gates of the hospital and knocked. A hatch slid open and the porter peered out. Before the man could say a word, Kemp held up a gold angel. The porter's eyes lit up, and within moments they were inside.

  "We are here on behalf of my client, one Maliverny Catlyn," Kemp said in crisp tones befitting his assumed profession, "to oversee the discharge of his brother from this place." He waved the writ under the porter's nose.

  The porter frowned. "Why ain't he here then? He told me he was in London until Christmas."

  "Master Catlyn is a man of substance now," Kemp said, pressing the gold coin into the man's grimy palm. "If he chooses to send his servants on this errand, what business is that of yours?"

  "None at all, sirs, none at all." The porter pocketed the bribe. "Master Alexander is in the west gatehouse, wonderful well cared for, as you will see."

  Mistress Cooke was equally surprised to see them, and exclaimed woefully at the news they were taking Sandy away. An angelic visitation soon calmed her nerves, however, and they were let into the cell.

  Sandy was crouched in the corner of his bed, eyeing them warily. A book lay open on the blanket nearby.

  "He's a bloody sorry specimen," Armitage said, after the wardress had gone.

  "He'll clean up," Kemp replied. He gestured to Ned to proceed with the plan.

  "Hello, Sandy." Ned stepped a little closer to the bed. "Remember me? Mal's friend?"

  "Ned Faulkner," Sandy replied. "Yes."

  "Your brother has sent us to take you out of here."

  "I know."

  Ned paused, dumbfounded. "You do?"

  "It's all part of the plan," Sandy said calmly.

  "Here, what's he talking about?" Armitage said. "You been telling tales, Faulkner?"

  "Not I," Ned said quickly. "Look, I told you he was–"

  "Enough!" Kemp held up his hands. "If he thinks this is his plan, all to the good. Now let's go."

  He unlocked the heavy iron shackles, then produced a pair of much lighter restraints from his lawyer's document wallet and snapped them around Sandy's wrists. The young man winced, though the blued steel bands seemed loose enough.

  "What are those for?" Ned asked.

  "Don't want him causing no trouble, do we?" Armitage growled.

  Ned refrained from commenting that, without a chain between them, the handcuffs would be of little use. There was something odd going on here, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

  Sandy gathered up the pile of books on the table. "I can't leave these," he muttered. "Mal would be angry with me."

  "All right, we'll take the books," Kemp said. "Armitage, you can carry them."

  "Me?"

  A look from Kemp cowed the big man. Ned wondered what hold Kemp had over him. Something even worse than he had over himself, probably.

  Sandy hugged the books to his chest.

  "It's all right," Ned told him. "You'll have them back as soon as we get to…" He broke off, realising he had no idea where Kemp was taking the young man.

  "To your brother's lodgings," Kemp put in. "Now, come along with me and Ned."

 
Ned took off his cloak and draped it around Sandy's shoulders.

  "Here," he said, "it's starting to rain."

  They escorted Sandy out of the ward and across the courtyard. The porter waved them through the gates, bowing obsequiously. "Thank you, sirs. My kind regards to your master."

  Ned helped Sandy into the coach, and they set off southwards down Bishopsgate Street. He wondered if the coach would be searched on entry into the city. Even if it were, what would be found amiss? Sandy was cooperating fully with his abductors, indeed seemed in control of the situation. Which was odd in itself. On the other hand Mal's brother was, after all, insane. Who knew what was going on inside his head?