The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(102)

"Liar," Kiiren spat.

"Sir?"

"If you are Erishen, you cannot have seen his death with living eyes. We are reborn only into bodies of unborn children. If you saw, you are not him."

"I–" Now he was totally confused. If Sandy had not been possessed that night, why…? The murder had been horrible, but surely not so horrible as to make a man lose his wits.

"Why do you lie to me?"

The young skrayling stood toe to toe with Mal, staring up into his face with inhuman amber eyes. Mal could think of nothing to say that would not further incriminate him at this point.

Kiiren turned paler still, if that were possible.

"You are in their pay," he said slowly. "They have taught you our tongue, that you may deceive me better."

"No–"

"Get out."

"Sir!" Mal had to force himself not to grab the ambassador by the front of his silken robes. "I swear to you I am not in the pay of your enemies. Now let me do my job and protect you from them."

He snatched up his sword belt and wrapped it about his waist, adjusting the buckles with military precision until both blades rested in the perfect position for combat. By the time he finished the familiar ritual, Kiiren had calmed down, at least a little.

"Very well," the ambassador said. "Now go. I do not wish to look upon you."

Mal snapped a formal bow and walked out. In the antechamber he halted, the reality of what had just happened finally hitting home, like a wound that goes unnoticed in the heat of battle.

He had come within a hair's breadth of dismissal, endangered Sandy's life and probably lost Kiiren's trust forever. As soon as the ambassador's visit was over, his job would be done and he would never see the skrayling again. The thought should have been comforting.

He paced the antechamber, cursing his stupid mouth. Wheeler probably knew nothing; it was his word against Mal's, and with the ambassador as his ally and protector, Monkton would have been hard pressed to make anything of it. Well, it was too late now.

A pity he had not managed to get more information out of the ambassador whilst the ruse lasted, but he had a few crumbs to go on, not least the confirmation that Kiiren had enemies amongst the skraylings as well as in the city. He would report to Walsingham tomorrow, after the play. All that mattered now was that he was still able to protect the ambassador and, with any luck, find Sandy and bring him back. Best to forget about the skraylings and their heresies, and focus on the here and now. Starting with a good night's sleep.

Coby spent a restless night trying to find a sleeping position that did not feel like she was being stabbed again. The knife wound had not bled through the bandages, thank the Lord, but it was still tender to the touch. She consoled herself with pleasant memories of Master Catlyn's closeness, wishing there was more to remember.

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.