The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(104)

"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 f*cks 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."