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

by Anne Lyle

  Perhaps the accident had been the hand of Fate, nudging her towards her true destiny. She was bound to be found out eventually, and who better to do that than the man she loved? Of course he might not return her feelings. He had made no move to take advantage of her, though that might simply be because he was a gentleman, not a Bankside ruffian. At least he would not speak of her as the apprentices did of their conquests, or so she hoped. The names they called the poor girls who gave in to their charms made her ashamed to call them friends.

  It was all moot anyway. Now he knew her secret, there would be no more fighting lessons, no more running hotfoot across the city with urgent news, no quiet moments of comradeship. He would start treating her like a helpless girl – had done so already, fussing over her and bringing her water to wash her bloodied clothes. Sooner or later someone would notice, and then her five-year adventure would be over. Best to forget she had ever met him.

  Lying awake and miserable in the watery light of dawn, she realised with horror there was still much to do before the performance, including delivering the trunks of costumes to the theatre. In the past it had been one of her tasks to help the draymen, but that was out of the question now; she could barely walk without wincing, never mind lift a heavy leather box. There had to be a way out that wouldn't draw Master Naismith's suspicion, something less strenuous that could occupy her time.

  As she washed and dressed she ran through everything she could think of. All the arrangements had been made well in advance, even without Master Dunfell's further help: the makeup and wigs were at the theatre, a spare plot-board written out, the costumes checked and re-checked… That was it. There had been a dress rehearsal on Monday, and only she and Master Parrish had stayed behind to put away the costumes. What if they had missed some damage that needed a lastminute repair? And if none existed, it could be made…

  Tiptoeing down the stairs in stockinged feet, she took Master Naismith's bunch of keys from their hook by the front door. She put on her shoes, slipped out of the door and round to the barn. Sunlight flooded in as she pushed back the door, catching motes of dust in a glittering whirl and making her sneeze.

  Leaving the door ajar to let in some light, she mounted the steps at the back of the wagon. Inside, three large storage trunks awaited her. She unlocked the nearest and went through the folded layers of fabric. It had to be something important, so she could justify being freed from other duties to mend it. And the damage must be obvious and plausible but easy to repair. To ruin the play after all their hard work was unthinkable.

  Nothing in the first one fitted the bill, being mainly soldiers' uniforms, shoes and belts. The second was more promising, however. In here were the faerie queen's gown and the doublets belonging to the three princes. The doublets had silver buttons down the front and silver-tipped points at the waist. A lost button or broken cord would be believable, but would take only minutes to replace from the spares in her sewing basket.

  She turned her attention to the queen's gown of sapphireblue silk brocade. The outer skirt bore a matching strip of velvet all round the hem, to guard the more fragile silk from damage. It was already worn a little flat where it dragged on the floor, but not enough to be noticeable. And yet what was more natural than for a misstep by young Philip to catch on it and tear a section loose?

  Hardly daring to breathe, she took out her knife and cut the velvet guard near the back of the skirt, then began to pull it away from the brocade. She cut the more reluctant stitches as well, to prevent tearing, and soon had a very convincing "accident" on her hands. It would take a good hour to sew it up again, even working quickly – and she was not minded to be too quick.

  Ned picked up a Venetian lace ruff, and let it fall. No point in trying to tidy this place; Gabe would hate it, and in any case there was nowhere to put everything. He contented himself with straightening the bed and gathering their dirty linens in a basket to take to the laundress.

  He was just peeling an embroidered stocking from its sticking-place on the headboard, when a knock came at the door. He froze. Who could it be at this hour? Gabe would be at the theatre by now, applying makeup and fussing over his costume, and Mal was on duty at the Tower. He cat-footed it over to the door. The rain-soaked, sun-dried wood had warped in its frame, leaving cracks wide enough to see through. A dark eye stared back at him.

  "Faulkner?" the visitor asked.

  "Who wants to know?"

  Ned hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. The ancient timbers would not keep the stranger out for long, not if he were determined to come in. Ned could only hope that, if it came to a break-in, the draper in the shop below would send someone up to investigate the noise.

  "I'm a friend of your friend Catlyn," the voice behind the eye said. "Now are you going to let me in or not?"

  Ned recalled his jibe at Mal. You don't have any friends. So who was this man? If he was telling the truth, he was at least not one of Kemp's allies. Mal would not conspire to kidnap his own brother, of that he was certain.

  "I'll let you in," Ned shouted, "if you can tell me the maker's mark on the blade of Mal's rapier."

  "Christ's balls! This isn't a game."

  "There are men out there who want me dead. You could be one of 'em."

  "All right, all right. It says 'Me fecit Solingen' down the fuller. Not that you won't find that on half the rapiers in London."

  "And?"

  "There's a triple cross after the inscription, and the initials JM as well. Satisfied?"

  Ned made an affirmative noise and shot back the bolts. The man entered the room, glancing round with disinterest.

  "I need you to come with me." He picked up a broadbrimmed hat, considered it for a moment, then tossed it back on the pile. "Better if you're not recognised."

  "By whom?"

  "Now, that's the question."

  Ned folded his arms. "You still haven't answered my question. Who are you?"

  "Name's Baines. More than that, you don't need to know. Don't want to know, if you get my drift."

  "You're one of Walsingham's lot."

  Baines inclined his head.

  "So what are you doing here?" Ned asked.

  "You have intelligence that's of use to my masters."

  Ned swallowed. He had feared all along it would come to this. As if reading his mind, Baines grinned.

  "No need to shit your breeches." He held up a striped djellaba, a gift from a Moorish admirer of Gabriel's, and threw it at Ned. "No one's going to lay a finger on you. Not as long as you do what you're told."

  Wrapped in the concealing garment, Ned followed Baines down Bermondsey Street and thence westwards through Southwark. Just before Battle Bridge they turned aside, down a narrow alley that led to the river. Before they reached the turbid waters of the Thames, however, Baines halted in front of a battered door.

  "What is this place?" Ned asked in a low voice.

  "A place."

  Baines opened the door and went inside. Ned followed, the horrible feeling he was being watched growing despite their being out of public view.

  "This place stinks like a charnel house," Ned complained, lifting a fold of the djellaba to his face. He thought he was used to the city's many foul odours, but the smell of death brought back too many memories.

  Baines led him down a short passageway and opened another door. The room beyond was dimly lit by ripples of sunlight reflecting off the river and through the uneven shutters. Blowflies rose in a cloud as they entered, circling the men's heads in irritation at the disturbance of their feast. On a rough pine table in the centre of the room lay a corpse, bloated and greenish-grey, like a week-old oyster from the bottom of the barrel.

  "Fished him out of the river," Baines said. "Know him?"

  Ned stepped a little closer, trying not to gag.

  "Kemp," he muttered.

  The villain might have been much the worse for his sojourn in the river, but Ned would have known that face anywhere. He had seen it often enough in his
dreams. And his fantasies of revenge.

  Baines grunted. "Thought as much. But you're the only man left alive to testify – the only one apart from Kemp's employer, at any rate – and we had to be sure."

  "Drowned?" Ned asked.

  "Hardly." Baines pushed the corpse's head to one side, revealing a jagged bloodless gash. "Messy, if you ask me. Not the work of a man accustomed to such business."

  "And that's supposed to make me feel better, is it?"

  "We're not here for your benefit. But if you don't want to be next, you'll do exactly as I tell you."

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Coby sat in the box-office, mending the gown she had ripped earlier that morning.

  "What's going on here?"

  She started, almost stabbing the needle into her thumb. Looking up she saw Master Dunfell standing over her. Behind him two servants were manhandling a padded bench up the stairs.

  "Just some last-minute repairs, sir." She held up the hem of the gown. "See, good as new."

  Dunfell sniffed. "I hope so."

  The servants carried the bench out onto the gallery and traipsed back through the box-office. Coby bent her head to her task. Just another couple of inches and she was done.

  The servants returned with another bench, followed by other liveried men laden with baskets of food, wine and silver tableware. The banquet was set out on a table at one end of the gallery, whilst Dunfell fussed over the disposition of every item.

  As the servants departed with empty baskets, Philip came running up the stairs.

  "Oi, Jakes, where's my gown?"

  She snipped the end of the thread and held it out to him.

  "Here you go."

  He gathered the thick folds in his arms and wandered out onto the balcony to examine her work in better light. Coby followed him, curious to see what delicacies were eaten by dukes. Plates of pastries ringed a silver stand piled with peaches and grapes. Flagons of pale wine were chilling in a porcelain cistern that stood on three gilded lions' feet.

  "Where do they get this stuff in summer?" Philip asked, dipping his hand into the cistern and pulling out a chunk of ice.

  "Get your filthy paws out of there, knave!" Master Dunfell flapped his hand towards Philip's wrist.

  "I am also curious, sir," Coby put in. "Surely it cannot have been kept since winter."

  "Some houses have deep cold cellars filled with great blocks of ice, it is true," Dunfell said. "But that is rarely possible in London. No, His Grace owns an ice-making engine."

  "An engine just for making ice?" What she wouldn't give to know how such a thing worked.

  Dunfell nodded. "A secret alchemical process, invented by the skraylings. It is the only one in England, I believe."

  Not the only one, Coby thought. But perhaps the only one owned by an Englishman. She bowed to the duke's secretary and took her leave. There was still plenty to do, even though it was a good hour until the theatre opened.

  The tiring room was empty for the nonce, and she took advantage of the quiet to make one last check of all her preparations. She took down the plot board from its hook and ran down the list. The props had all been set out on a table by the stage door in order of use: a scroll with tasselled ends, a basket of apples, a lute, three lanterns, a match-cord in a brass holder and a fake severed head in a sack. The only thing missing was the cage containing a live popinjay, which Master Eaton was bringing with him.

  A hand grabbed her collar and something icy cold and wet slithered down her back. She yelped and sprang up, reaching behind her back and trying to get the ice cube out. Philip was standing a few feet away, arms folded, a malicious smirk belying his girlish features.

  "That's for ratting on me to Master Parrish," he said.

  "I did nothing of the sort."

  "Says you. Little Master Ne'er-Do-Ill. Where were you the other night, anyway? With Catlyn again?" The boy leered. "Bet you squeal like a girl when he fucks you."

  Coby's fist flew up of its own accord, hitting Philip's face with a satisfying crunch. The young actor fell on his backside with a wail, clutching his nose.

  "What's all this?" Master Naismith appeared from nowhere and hauled Philip to his feet. "God's teeth, lad! Here, let me have a look."

  Philip removed his hand from his nose. A thin stream of blood ran down from one nostril, and his lip was already starting to swell. Naismith cuffed Coby round the head.

  "What in God's holy name did you think you were doing, boy?"

  "He said–"

  "I don't care what he said, you don't punch one of my actors in the face the morning of a performance. Now go and get some ice from his lordship's table, and be quick about it!"

  She did so, thankful that Master Dunfell had already left. By the time she returned, Master Parrish had arrived and was fussing over his apprentice like a broody hen. Master Naismith hauled her away by the ear.

  "What am I going to do with you boys?" he said, shaking his head. "Go on, get on with your work. I'll deal with you later, when the play is over."

  They left the Tower later than planned, after a long and fruitless argument about seating arrangements. Kiiren had not been happy about the decision to sit in the gallery above the stage, but Mal had overruled him. Once the young ambassador might have tried to cajole him into changing his mind; now he was distant and imperious in demeanour.

  As the ambassador's coach rattled along Bankside, a trumpet rang out in the distance, announcing the opening of the theatre doors. Mal shook the reins of his borrowed gelding and urged the beast into a trot, passing the coach and gesturing for the driver to speed up. The man shrugged, pointing to the crowd that blocked the turn into Gravel Lane. Mal turned his mount back towards the skrayling guards, beckoning them to ride forward and clear the way. Their leader hesitated, stooped to confer with the ambassador, then waved his men forward. Mal sighed. This was going to be a very long day.

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea as the skrayling guards rode ahead of the coach, baring their teeth in friendly warning. Soon the coach was through the gates and heading for the back of the theatre, watched with idle curiosity by many on the fringes of the crowd.

  Mal dismounted and knocked on the back door. It was opened by a boy in a corset and farthingales, his face covered in white makeup. The boy took in Mal's royal livery with a shrewd glance, then his eyes widened as he saw the skraylings.

  "Come in, sirs," he replied in a piping voice quite unlike Hendricks' husky alto. "My lord Suffolk is already within."

  Mal turned to Kiiren, who gestured curtly for him to go ahead. As they stepped into the darkened hallway at the foot of the stairs, Henry Naismith emerged from the tiring room.

  "Welcome, sirs, to our humble theatre–"

  Mal touched a finger to his lips.

  "Please do not address the ambassador, either now or after the performance," he said, pitching his voice to carry into the tiring room. "It is against skrayling protocol, and might disqualify you from the contest."

  "Of course, of course," Naismith told him. "Please assure His Excellency we respect his people's customs."

  Mal thanked him, and escorted Kiiren up to the box-office. As they emerged onto the gallery, Suffolk and his party got to their feet in a rustle of silk and lace. The handsome fair-haired woman must be Lady Grey, from her likeness to her eldest son; others were cousins and hangers-on of the sort that surrounded every man of influence. Mal was surprised to see Blaise amongst their number, however. Either father and son were reconciled, or they were putting on at least as good a show up here as on the stage.

  It crossed his mind that Grey would make the perfect Huntsman assassin, able to get close to the ambassador then hide behind his father's considerable influence. On the other hand he would have to be foolish or desperate to try such a gambit, and Grey did not have the look of either. On the contrary, he appeared at ease, and greeted Mal warmly.

  "Catlyn!" He embraced Mal, murmuring in his ear, "I see you did the right thing after all."

/>   Before Mal could react to this unexpected statement, he found himself being introduced to the duke.

  "Father," Blaise said, "I'd like you to meet Maliverny Catlyn, an old friend of mine from Cambridge."

  "Your Grace." Mal bowed low. "It is an honour to meet you."

  Suffolk inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  "I am always glad to know more of the company my son keeps. Did you enjoy your time at Cambridge?"

  "Y-yes, sir. I took a great interest in music and astronomy, though my father urged me to study the law."

  "Very wise of him."

  Throughout this brief exchange the duke's eyes scanned Mal's face without pause. Did Suffolk know, or suspect, that Blaise had acquaintances amongst the Huntsmen? Given his son's erstwhile antipathy towards the skraylings, he must surely be on the lookout for anyone who might prove an enemy.