The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(106)

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.