The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(121)

"I wouldn't know, sir."

"You wouldn't know. But I do. If these men have witchcraft at their disposal, why not attack the ambassador directly? Unless it is not the ambassador who is the target."

"They were after Mal all along," Ned breathed. "But why?"

"That is what I would like to know. And that is why I must know everything you know, or suspect."

Ned bit his lip, uncertain how much to tell Walsingham. Was it betraying his friend, or helping him?

"Mal and his brother are in or near one of the royal palaces, west of London," he said at last.

Walsingham halted on the threshold and turned to stare at Ned, squinting against the sunlight. "How do you know this?"

"Hendricks told us, sir."

"Us?"

"Me and Gabe, sir. Gabriel Parrish the actor, I mean."

"I know who Parrish is. How did Hendricks find out?"

"Don't know, sir," Ned replied. He wasn't about to tell Walsingham that Mal was consorting with underage boys. It had nothing to do with the disappearances, and would only get Mal into serious trouble when they did find him. "I suppose he went to see the ambassador on some errand, what with the theatre burning down."

"Hmm." He ushered Ned into a parlour that overlooked the garden. A fire burned in the grate, but it was still shadowed and chilly. "What were you up to this morning, Faulkner?"

"Sir?"

Walsingham sat down in a chair by the hearth with a sigh.

"From what Baines told me, it sounds dangerously like another conspiracy. Hendricks running back and forth on mysterious errands when he should be mourning the loss of his master, Parrish no better, and you just happen to be right there in the middle…"

"We were going to find Mal and Sandy," Ned blurted out. "Take a boat upriver, and look for them."

"But you don't know where they are."

"Well, no, sir, not exactly where. But we have a rough idea."

"A rough idea. So, you plan to go blundering around the Thames valley in search of two men who have been locked away where no one can find them."

Ned hung his head. Put like that, it did sound stupid.

"Still, it might prove fruitful," Walsingham added.

"Sir?"

"There is a chance you may alarm the conspirators into showing their hand too early."

Ned grinned. Now he was on surer ground. "Like a bluff at cards."

"Precisely." Walsingham picked up a small bell that stood on a table at his elbow, and rang it briefly. "Very well, continue with your scheme, and tell Baines to supply you with whatever you need. We wouldn't want you to walk into a trap unarmed, would we now?"

"No, sir. Thank you, sir."

The manservant appeared, and Ned followed him back to the atrium. A trap? He didn't like the sound of Walsingham's plan one bit, but on the other hand, what choice did they have?

Before the sun had climbed halfway to its zenith Mal had exhausted all his ideas on how to get them out of their cell. He had hoped that if Sandy could magic him here, Sandy could magic him back, perhaps even magic them both back, but his brother had lapsed into a silence as profound as any Mal had seen before. No amount of pleading or cajoling raised so much as a flicker of recognition. At least he was not screaming or twitching in one of his terrible seizures, for which Mal thanked God at least once an hour.

His other hope was that he might attract attention by waving something from the window. With an entire palace and its dozens of windows only a hundred yards away, someone must surely see him and wonder what was going on in Suffolk's country mansion. However, the bars prevented the window from being opened more than a finger's breadth, and the small thick panes were impossible to break.

At around noon, footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Dinner, perhaps? Mal went over to the door to listen, but could hear no voices. A key grated in the lock. Mal flattened himself against the wall, and as the door opened he kicked it wide and launched himself at the armed retainer, sending them both careening out into the corridor. They struggled for a moment, then Mal heard a familiar voice say:

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He whirled, and the retainer's staff hit him in the ribs from behind. Mal staggered and caught himself against the door frame – and froze when he saw a crossbow pointed straight at Sandy.

Blaise was dressed for riding in a doublet and hose of buff leather trimmed with brown velvet, and his face was flushed with exertion. The crossbow, a heavy German hunting model inset with mother-of-pearl, was tucked casually under his arm.

"I must say, Goddard," he remarked to the retainer in idle tones, "When I heard your report, I thought you'd been drinking my father's best sack. But here he is, as large as life. How are you, Catlyn?"

Mal straightened up, and the butt of the quarterstaff prodded him in the back. He reluctantly stepped back into the room. Sandy stared at Blaise, wide-eyed, and began to mutter under his breath. The retainer moved towards him, quarterstaff at the ready.

"Don't distress yourself, Alexander," Blaise said. "I'll get to you later."

He gestured for Mal to move to the opposite end of the room.

"What are you going to do with us?" Mal asked.

"I? Nothing." Blaise cocked his head on one side, looked back at Sandy and then at Mal. "How did you get here?"