The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(105)

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.

"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.