The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(124)

"No. I think we played at Suffolk House once, when I first came to London, but I was so mazed by everything I could scarce tell one great mansion from the next."

Ned scanned the park. London born and bred, he was out of his element here. Over to the right the trees thickened into dense oak woodland, its shadowed depths more dangerous to his eyes than a Southwark alley. A rich man's private hunting ground. Ned prayed they would not end up as the ones hunted.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, then a key turned in the lock. Blaise entered, accompanied by Goddard and two other men, both of the latter armed with stout cudgels tucked into their belts. Sandy whimpered and pressed himself into the farthest corner of the bedstead. Blaise beckoned to Mal, who looked back at his brother.

"Touch him again," he told Blaise, "and you'll wish you'd never been born."

Blaise said nothing, only gestured for him to leave.

They left Goddard stationed outside the room, and Mal was taken downstairs and through a door into the great hall. The night's chill still clung to the stone walls, though the morning light reached in through the tall windows to caress the terracotta tiles with pale fingers. The high table was strewn with books and papers and the remains of breakfast.

At one end of the dais an archway opened onto a straight wooden stair running up to the lord's private apartments. Mal was ushered through the empty solar into the bedchamber beyond, where Suffolk sat propped up in bed. A black-gowned doctor was washing his hands in a porcelain basin, but looked round as the visitors entered.

"His Grace is not to be troubled for long, signore," he told Blaise, wiping his fingers fastidiously on a towel.

"I think my father is fit to decide for himself," Blaise replied.

The physician gave a curt bow, little more than a bob of the head, and stumped out of the room, followed by a servant carrying the basin. As they passed, Mal could not help but glance into it: the contents swirled red and black with clotted blood.

The duke was almost as pale as his linen nightshirt and his eyes were bright with pain. He gestured to his men, who seized Mal by the arms. Blaise stepped in front of Mal and gazed down at him with a mixture of disgust and fascination. Slowly he unbuttoned Mal's doublet, gentle as a lover. He unlocked one manacle and slipped Mal's arm out of the sleeve on that side before replacing the iron band around his wrist, then repeated the process on the other side. Mal made no attempt to resist; he was outnumbered three to one, and he had no intention of giving Blaise one iota more pleasure than he had to.

Blaise drew his dagger and held it up before Mal's eyes, daring him to flinch. Mal stared right back. Blaise smiled and went round behind him. After a long moment, Blaise seized the back of Mal's shirt and slit it from neck to hem. Mal stiffened, recalling the last time he had been in this position. Blaise began to unwind the bandages.

"One would think the skraylings inured to brutality," Blaise said in conversational tones, "considering the customs of the New World's savages. Did you know they cut out the hearts of living men as sacrifices to their gods?"

"The skraylings, or the savages?" Mal replied, matching Blaise's nonchalant air.

Blaise only laughed softly. "And yet they almost broke their alliance with us over a mere flogging. You must be very important to them. Or at least to the ambassador."

"He has been… gracious," Mal said.

"So I see." Blaise threw the last of the bandages aside. "These wounds are healing well."

Mal watched out of the corner of his eye as Blaise went over to the table where the doctor had washed his hands. A large medicine cabinet decorated with scenes of Christ's healing miracles stood against the wall. Blaise turned the key in the lock and opened the doors wide.

"Of course they would heal a lot faster with stronger medicine." He returned with a small glass bottle and a swab on a stick. "I'm afraid this may be a little painful."

Mal steeled himself for the sting of ashaarr. The swab touched the edge of a welt, cold at first then – He bucked in his captors' grasp, barely feeling their hands tighten on his arms as a thousand white-hot needles pierced his raw flesh. The pain echoed through the halls of his body like a gunshot, leaving him breathless and shaking.

The duke spoke for the first time since Mal had entered the room, in a voice faint but steady.

"Who are you?"

"Maliverny Catlyn, of Rushdale."

The duke glanced over Mal's shoulder. Another touch, another searing wave of pain.

"Not your Christian name. The creature inside you."

Mal shook his head, then ground his teeth together as Blaise applied the swab once more. Was this how they tortured Sandy? There had been no outward sign of harm, but now Mal's imagination was conjuring the effect of this tincture on a man's innards. Bile rose in his throat.

"No matter," the duke said. "I know already. You are Erishen. Both of you."

Mal stared at him. How could that be? And yet he knew it for the truth. He remembered dying at the hands of the Huntsmen, because he was Erishen. A sob escaped his lips.

The duke chuckled drily, a spasm that soon turned to wheezing coughs. Blaise left off tormenting Mal for a moment and handed his father a goblet.

"Damned fire," the duke gasped, when he had his breath back. "So, Erishen, what were you up to in Derbyshire? Looking for old friends?"