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

by Anne Lyle

  "The play is about to start, my dear," the duchess said, gesturing towards the stage with her fan. "Do sit down."

  Mal stepped back into the shadows of the gallery. Should he be guarding the door against enemies from within the company, or watch the audience for signs of armed assassins? He decided to stand to one side of the gallery door, where he had a good view over the head of the ambassador into the crowd below.

  The door opened a crack, making him start.

  "Is everything to the ambassador's satisfaction?" Hendricks asked in a low voice.

  Mal nodded. "Shouldn't you be downstairs, dressing the actors?"

  "All done," she replied. "Master Parrish likes to do Pip's makeup, so I'm not needed now until the end of the first scene."

  Mal glanced towards the duke's party, but everyone's attention was fixed on the stage, where Henry Naismith was reciting the introduction to the play.

  "How are you?" he asked Hendricks. "Does my… tailoring pass muster?"

  "It is sore," she conceded. "But it does not burn or fester."

  "Good."

  An awkward silence.

  "I should get back to work," Mal said.

  "And I too."

  "Right."

  She reached out a hand and touched his arm, turned scarlet with embarrassment, mumbled something incomprehensible and slipped away into the tiring house. Mal caught himself grinning, and immediately felt a pang of guilt. The poor child had entrusted him with a secret as delicate as his own; only a dishonourable varlet would take advantage of her innocence. He rubbed a hand across his face, wishing he could soothe his distemper with some of the ice-chilled Rhenish the duke's guests were enjoying, and resumed his vigil.

  At the start of Act Three, the cannon was raised up onto the stage via the trapdoor, to add spectacle to the scene in which the pompous second prince lay siege to the gates of Elfhame. Coby had checked the mechanism earlier by lamplight, but now with the cannon primed with the flash powder provided by Master Cutsnail, she had to keep all flames well away.

  She picked up the keg and made her way back through the cramped space as fast as she could; she didn't need to be told that standing under a firing cannon was a bad idea, even if the stuff was perfectly safe as long as it wasn't mixed with gunpowder…

  Gunpowder. She recalled Wheeler's empty pistol. Heart pounding, she scurried past the wave engines and other stage machinery, and up the short flight of stairs. The tiring room was full of actors preparing to head out onto the stage. Should she warn them now? No, best to make certain, or Master Naismith would have her hide for ruining the performance with a false alarm.

  She pushed through the crowd of actors to the back of the room, where the row of makeup tables stood under the windows, and tore open the keg. Hands trembling, she shook out some of its contents onto a clean rag and held it up to the light. Her eyes widened in horror. Black specks marred the redbrown powder.

  Even as she turned to warn the actors, they began to march onto the stage through the curtained exits. She elbowed her way through the stragglers, heedless of the pain in her side.

  "Master Naismith?"

  The actor-manager stopped and looked round. He was dressed in antique armour, with a plumed helm that sat on the back of his head and gilded buskins on his feet.

  "Not now, lad! This is my big scene."

  "Please." She grabbed hold of his sleeve. "Sir, I think Wheeler put gunpowder in the skrayling fireworks."

  He frowned at her, the garish stage makeup exaggerating his expression. "And that's bad, is it?"

  "Yes, yes, really bad. Please, sir, we have to stop Master Rudd from lighting that fuse."

  Ambassador Kiiren was most intrigued by the appearance on stage of the little cannon, but Mal was glad the muzzle was pointing well away from the minstrels' gallery. He had been in enough battles to respect the indiscriminate power of artillery.

  A group of actors emerged from the tiring house below them, dressed in white cloaks and bronze helms. Their leader struck a heroic pose, brandishing a smouldering match-cord at the end of a brass rod.

  "He'll put that out if he's not careful," Mal murmured to himself.

  He stepped nearer the front of the gallery, battle instincts roused. The actor cleared his throat and began his speech.

  "My brother's cause is lost; a cooling card

  Lies at his feet. Thus ends his ardent suit.

  But I, who on his heels did ever follow hard,

  Run now ahead, unwavering in pursuit.

  This queen I'll woo with actions, not with words,

  With cannon's loud report and clash of swords."

  He lowered the match towards the cannon's powder hole.

  "Stop!" someone shouted.

  Mal caught a brief glimpse of another man in armour bursting onto the stage, then he threw himself at Kiiren, knocking them both to the floor of the gallery. An instant later the fretted balustrade exploded into tinder, followed by a wave of screams from the theatre yard below. He pulled himself closer to Kiiren.

  "Are you hurt, Your Excellency?"

  The ambassador groaned and rolled over. His dark hair was full of dust and he had a scrape on his cheek where he had hit the floorboards, but there was no blood staining his cerulean robes. And for the first time since last night, he looked pleased to see Mal.

  "What happen?" he rasped, spitting out a mouthful of sawdust.

  "The cannon exploded, I think. An accident."

  At least, Mal hoped so. A poorly cast barrel, the wrong mix of powder; anything could go wrong with such powerful weapons, and frequently did.

  He got to his feet, shielding his eyes against the dust and smoke. Someone pushed past him, heading for the tiring house. The crackle of flames grew louder as the fire reached the fauxmarble pillars with their thick layers of oil paint.

  "Help us!"

  He turned to see Grey kneeling a few yards away, cradling his father in his arms. The duke sprawled on the gallery floor amongst the ruins of their seating, face white as paper. His left hand pawed at a metal splinter the size of a tent-peg embedded in his thigh.

  "Help me up," Kiiren said, coughing. "I will tend him."

  "No, sir, you must lie low. This could be a diversion to scatter our forces and make you more vulnerable."

  "Lord Suffolk is our greatest advocate amongst English. I do not wish him to die."

  Mal looked around.

  "Where are your retainers?" he shouted at Grey.

  "Gone, the craven varlets. Please, Catlyn–"

  Another, smaller explosion rocked the gallery, this time accompanied by a blinding flash of light. Mal froze, torn between obeying the ambassador and holding to his commission. Whatever he did next, someone was going to die.

  Master Naismith staggered backwards through the curtain and collapsed at Coby's feet, his face a bloody ruin. She opened her mouth to scream, but only a thin animal sound came out.

  "Come, we can do nothing for him," Parrish shouted, ushering her towards the back door. The exit was surrounded by panicking actors.

  "Where are the bloody keys?" someone yelled.

  "Here!" Coby fumbled at her belt for the heavy iron ring.

  As they wrenched it open, she remembered why the door had been locked in the first place.

  "Master Catlyn!"

  She ran towards the stairs. Parrish grabbed her arm and tried to hold her back.

  "Don't be a fool!" he shouted over the din. "We have to get out!"

  She shook him off and ran up the stairs, pressing herself against the wall as the richly clad nobles streamed down to safety. Even in the near dark, she was certain none of them was Mal.

  "Master Catlyn!"

  By the time she reached the gallery, it was almost empty. The refreshment table had been knocked over and the floor was a mess of broken porcelain, fruit pulp and half-melted ice.

  "Hendricks!"

  Her heart leapt as she saw Master Catlyn crouching near the ruined balustrade.

  "He
ndricks, get the ambassador downstairs. I need to help carry His Grace to safety – he is sorely wounded."

  "Of course, sir."

  She glanced at Suffolk and paled, then returned her attention to the ambassador.

  "If you please, Your Excellency…?"

  The skrayling was a good six inches shorter than her, so even with her injury it took little effort to support him as they made their way downstairs. The tiring room was thick with smoke now, and she had to put out one hand to feel the way to the back door. At last they emerged coughing into daylight, and she led the ambassador a safe distance from the burning building.

  The escaping audience, emerging from the main gates on the far side of the theatre, poured out into Gravel Lane or across the bridges to Paris Gardens. A few stragglers turned back to gaze at the spectacle, but most Londoners were too well aware of the danger of fire in a city built mostly of wood.

  "Hendricks, yes? We meet again," the ambassador said, smiling at her.

  She could not return his greeting. A vision of Master Naismith's ruined face rose in her memory. What was there to smile about?

  A taller skrayling ran up, his whorled face creased with concern, and questioned the ambassador in his own tongue. Coby stared at the theatre as if in a dream, her hair curling in the waves of heat that rolled across the seared grass. Suddenly she recalled that the powder keg with its deadly contents was still in the tiring room. And Master Catlyn was in there with it.

  With a cry of despair she ran back towards the burning building, but halted when the shapes of two men appeared through the smoke billowing from the door. They were carrying something between them. The duke.

  "Master Catlyn!" she shouted hoarsely, beckoning to them. "Get away from there!"

  The rescuers stumbled towards her. Not fast enough.

  "Everyone, get away from here as quick as you can!" She gestured to the skraylings, but they just stared at her. She pointed to the theatre. "Great firework. Kill all."

  Lord Kiiren barked an order to his guards, who ran to help carry the duke. Within moments the injured man was settled on one bench of the coach, and Coby found herself bundled inside, squeezed between the ambassador and Master Catlyn. Lord Grey crouched awkwardly on the edge of the bench opposite, steadying the duke as the coach lurched across the field. Coby tried not to stare at the spike of gunmetal still protruding from the duke's leg, but it drew her eye as if daring her to blench.

  The coach turned left towards Newington to avoid the crowds heading towards the river. They had barely gone fifty yards when a dull explosion rocked the coach. The horses whinnied in terror and broke into a canter, causing the coach to bounce along the rutted road and Lord Grey to curse loudly. When the driver finally brought the beasts back under control, Coby dared to twist round in her seat. Through the small back window she could see a pall of black smoke rising from the ruins, and flames devouring what little remained. The theatre was destroyed, and Suffolk's Men with it.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Baines halted outside a glover's shop opposite the Bull's Head, pretending to admire the rich hues of the leather samples nailed to a board. Ned hunched inside the djellaba, convinced the foreign garment would only attract the attention he was desperately trying to avoid.

  "That the place?" Baines asked him, jerking his head discreetly in the direction of the tavern.

  "Yes, but it'll be empty today. Everyone who can spare the time and money will be at the Mirror." Like I would be, if there wasn't a murderous throat-slitting bastard after me.

  "Good. Better chance of our man spotting you."

  "You're going to use me as bait?"

  In the fraction of a second before Ned's feet could obey him and break into a run, Baines caught his arm in a pincer grip and drew his dagger, keeping it at waist height.

  "Going somewhere?" Baines growled.

  "No, no. Just for a drink." God knows I need one.

  "Good. Now, here's the plan–"

  A low boom sounded in the distance.

  "What was that?" Ned asked, looking around. Then he remembered; Gabriel had told him a cannon was to be fired during the play. He hoped it was going well.

  "Oi, pay attention," Baines said, flicking the dagger blade towards Ned's belly. "Now, in a minute we're going to stroll into that next alley, where you'll take that thing off. Next, you stroll back out, go straight across the street to the tavern and order your usual drink. If you see anyone you know, greet them as you would any other day, talk to them, play a game of shove ha'penny–"

  "You'll have to lend me an ha'penny, then. And money for beer."

  Baines rolled his eyes, but counted out fourpence into Ned's waiting palm.

  "Right, now, if you see anyone watching you, make some excuse and leave your friends, all right? Make out you're drunk, and leave the tavern…"

  He proceeded to describe the route Ned should take.

  "That's a dead end!" Ned squeaked. "What if this fellow follows me in and murders me?"

  "Then he'll hang for it. After he's confessed to everything else."

  "That's not much of a comfort," Ned muttered, glancing towards the tavern. He desperately needed a piss now, as well as a beer.

  At that moment Southwark's church bells began to toll, first one then many together.

  "What's going on?" Ned asked. "Surely it's not four o'clock already?"

  "Can't be." Baines said, his head cocked on one side in concentration. "That gunfire came from the west, so did the first bells. St Mary Overie, by the sounds of 'em."

  "But why–?"

  A ripple of screams passed down the street, going west to east.

  "Fire!" a man shouted. "Fire in Bankside!"

  The moment Baines released his grip Ned was off, muttering desperate prayers as he ran westwards toward the Mirror. Those fleeing the fire stopped for a moment to stare at the young man as he ran past, djellaba billowing in his wake, then they remembered their peril and moved on. The wind was in the west; all Southwark was in danger of burning.

  Coby leant back into the padded seat, taking comfort from the warmth of Master Catlyn's leg pressed against her own. She longed to lay her head on his shoulder and… But not here, in front of strangers. Instead she thought back to the afternoon's events, wondering where, how she could have done things better. Something else bothered her, though. Something about their escape from the theatre–

  At the end of Gravel Lane the coach turned left, skirting the southern edge of the suburb.

  "Where are we going?" Lord Grey asked, craning his neck to look out of the window.

  "To our camp," the ambassador replied. "Your father needs best care."

  Grey frowned. "Not by your kind. Turn the coach around."

  "I do not advise it–"

  "Take us to Lambeth," Grey said, his tone brooking no argument. "We can get a wherry to Suffolk House from there."

  The duke beckoned to his son and mumbled something in his ear. Grey shook his head.

  "It's too far, Father." He looked back at the ambassador. "Lambeth. Now."

  The skrayling's eyes narrowed, but he rapped on the roof of the coach and shouted an order in his own tongue. The coach lurched across the road and traced a semicircle through an open field, turning back the way they had come.

  No one spoke for a long while. Coby glanced from the ambassador to the duke's son and back. Master Catlyn had told her Grey disliked the skraylings, but surely not enough to risk his father's life, or to disobey his command? She remembered Wheeler. Men could be driven to do desperate things out of fear and hatred.

  Grey bent over his father, coughing, and her own throat itched in sympathy. Her lungs felt like the inside of a chimney, scorched and soot-blackened. As if anticipating her need, the ambassador drew a bottle from under his seat, uncorked it and passed it around. It was aniig, lukewarm now but as welcome as cold beer on a summer's day. She took a long gulp then passed the bottle to Master Catlyn, who did likewise before offering it to Grey in turn. The duke
's son shook his head, but at a gesture from his father he relented and took the bottle, lifting it to the injured man's lips, though he did not drink any himself.

  The road to Lambeth ran across the marsh of the same name towards the Canterbury Arms tavern and, beyond it, the pale tower of St Mary-at-Lambeth next to the bishop's palace. Pollarded willows lined the road, their blunt heads shorn of withies to build the now-ruined theatre. Brown cattle dotted the water meadows, grazing placidly, unaware of the chaos downwind of their pasture. The damp, sunken landscape seemed to echo Coby's misery, and she rubbed her treacherous eyes with a sooty cuff.