The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(122)

Mal folded his arms. "I don't know."

"Wrong answer." Blaise aimed his crossbow at Mal's foot.

Mal weighed up his options. Blaise had not resorted to violence when he had questioned Sandy – assuming it was his words Sandy had echoed – but he probably had no such qualms with Mal himself. Injured, Mal was of no use to his brother, but if he revealed Sandy's magic, would that do Blaise's work for him? What would the Huntsmen do with that power once they had it under their control?

"I used witchcraft," Mal said.

"You?"

Mal nodded, praying Blaise would believe him.

"How?" Blaise asked.

"I flew here on wings of night, drawn by my brother's need." As he said the words he knew they were true, in a fashion; his dreams had led him to Sandy, even if the magic had not been his.

"A pity you couldn't just fly out again," Blaise sneered.

"Perhaps I choose not to," Mal replied.

"Brave words." He called over his shoulder. "Ivett!"

A young man in livery entered the room, carrying two sets of gyves joined by chains. These were plain iron, not bronze. With many a nervous glance at his master, Ivett placed the irons around Mal's wrists and ankles, securing them with simple padlocks.

"Now you have no choice," Blaise said, when the man was done. He backed towards the door, the servants preceding him out of the room.

Mal yanked the chain between his wrists, but it was well forged and solid. Blaise was right; he had no choice now but to stay here and wait out whatever plan the Greys had in mind.

Ned climbed the outside stair to Gabriel's lodgings and let himself in.

"What took you so long?" Gabriel asked, eyeing the heavy satchel that hung at Ned's side. His gaze flicked to Ned's face and he leapt to his feet. "God in Heaven, what happened?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing to me," Gabriel said, putting his hand under Ned's chin and tipping his head to one side to get a better look at the scrape.

"A run-in with that whoreson Baines, if you must know," Ned grunted. Seeing the concern in his lover's eyes, he added, "Don't fret, it's all sorted out between us."

"Well. Good." Gabriel turned to Hendricks. "Ready?"

The boy nodded.

"Right. You two head upriver, I'll report to the ambassador. I think someone should keep an eye on Suffolk House."

"You think Ambassador Kiiren was talking about Whitehall Palace after all?" Hendricks asked.

Gabriel shrugged. "You say he said 'not close', didn't you? But we can't be too sure. Skraylings may measure things differently."

Ned took Gabriel's face in his hands.

"I won't be parted from you again," he whispered.

"Don't be a fool, love," Gabriel replied, catching hold of his wrists. He glanced significantly towards the boy. "Hendricks needs your help. What good would I be in a fight?"

"I've seen you with a sword. Not nearly as good as Mal, mind–"

"Play-acting, and well practised as any courtly dance. In a real duel I would be minced meat, and you know it."

"All right," Ned sighed, and brought one of Gabriel's hands to his lips for a tender kiss. "My lady must do as she pleases."

The look Gabriel gave him from under lowered lids almost made Ned send Hendricks on his way, and to hell with Mal.

"Right," he said, releasing Gabriel. "We'd better be off."

"Tyrell's is the best livery stable in Southwark," Gabriel said. "Tell Tom the stable lad I sent you, and you'll get a good price."

Ned looked at Hendricks. "Can you ride?"

The boy shrugged in apology. That would be a no, then.

"We'll hire a boat," Ned told Gabriel. "Neither of us will be any use to Mal with a broken neck."

"Be careful, sweet," Gabriel murmured, hugging him.

"Don't worry about me. I have the Devil's own luck."




CHAPTER XXXII

Coby leant on the gunwales of the little boat, scanning the Middlesex bank for a good landing place. They were about a mile downstream from Ferrymead House, and the golden pinnacles of Richmond Palace glinted above the trees to the west. They had seen no sign of the duke's barge, though this was not surprising since it had a head start on them of at least an hour.

"There," she cried, pointing to a level stretch of grass beside a willow. Faulkner steered the boat towards it, and soon their prow bumped against the bank. The little craft spun like a leaf in the current, coming to rest with its stern amongst the willow roots that stretched down into the water.

"Christ's balls," Faulkner muttered, shaking his arms and flexing his fingers. "Why in God's name didn't we hire a man to row this thing?"

"The thing about secret missions is–" Coby paused for effect "–they're secret."

Faulkner looked away, suddenly unwilling to meet her eye, like a schoolboy caught truanting. Coby's heart sank. She knew he was hiding something, but how was she to get to the truth? She could hardly beat the information out of him.

"Half the Tower probably knows where we've gone by now," Ned replied with forced casualness, then paled. "You don't think they'd torture Gabe for information, do you?"