The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(131)

Wriggling sideways through the narrow embrasure, he fell onto a pile of hay. The loft was dark and dusty, no sound but the occasional stamp of a hoof from the stalls below. He began to feel his way on hands and knees towards the trapdoor.

A hand grabbed his wrist, and he stifled a yelp.

"Is that you, Jacob?" a female voice murmured invitingly.

Jacob? Was young Hendricks making trysts instead of rescuing his beloved Mal? It seemed very unlikely, and yet Jacob was scarcely a common name in England.

The girl moved closer to get a better look at him.

"Who are y–"

Ned launched himself at her, clapping a hand over her mouth and pushing her down in the hay.

"Not a word," he growled. "Scream, and I'll slit your throat. Understand?"

The girl nodded, on the verge of tears. Then she closed her eyes and went limp beneath him. She thinks I'm going to rape her, poor little bitch. He sighed and relaxed his grip.

"Stay here," he told her, "stay silent and thank Christ and all his apostles I have not the slightest interest in your… thing."

The trapdoor rattled and Ned leapt up, the girl forgotten. As it opened, Ned took one moment to assure himself the emerging figure was not Hendricks, then lashed out with a foot. The man's head snapped back and hit the trapdoor with a dull thud, then he slithered down through the opening, limp as a sack of flour. The girl clapped her hand to her mouth, stifling a scream.

Ned peered down into the stable. Horses stirred and stamped their feet at the disturbance, but no one had raised the alarm. The man – a groom by the looks of him – lay on the stable floor, his head and limbs at unnatural angles. Ned swallowed, the bile rising in the back of his throat. Another death on his hands. Had he turned killer so easily? With a last warning glance back at the girl, he slid down the ladder to the stable below, closing the hatch behind him.

He started as the stable door swung open and a familiar figure slipped inside.

"Hendricks! What are you doing here?" Ned hissed. Not that he needed to ask, after his encounter in the loft.

The boy pressed a finger to his lips and motioned to the courtyard. Ned peered over his shoulder and saw two liveried servants crossing the courtyard.

"Are you sure Mal is here?" Ned whispered in the boy's ear.

Hendricks took a button from his pocket and showed it to Ned.

"All right," he said. "What do we do now?"

Shadows danced across the walls of the cellar and Mal was instantly alert, ears pricked to catch the voices of his tormentors. He saw them first, however: Blaise with a manic smile etched into his face by the brazier's infernal glow, and behind him Suffolk, grey-faced and sweating as he leant on his menservants' shoulders. Shaking the men off, the duke limped over to a barrel and perched on the edge, his wounded leg stuck out before him.

Blaise took out a bunch of keys and removed the padlock holding the chain in place. He caught the chain as it slithered free, gathered it up and threw it to one of the men.

"Leave us," he said.

The servants made their obeisances and left, though not without a few backward glances. Were they afraid for their lord's safety, with only Blaise between him and two dangerous prisoners? Or did they have their own doubts, having thought on Mal's earlier words? If they did, it was not enough to sway them from their lord. The cellar door thudded shut behind them with dreadful finality.

He struggled against his bonds, until the cords cut into both their wrists and Sandy cried out in pain. Blaise laughed softly.

"This will all be over soon, and your souls will be free," he said, smiling down at Mal.

His dark blond curls almost brushed the low ceiling. Mal longed for a sword in his hand; Blaise's greater height would be a disadvantage in a fight here, and the thought of wiping that sanctimonious smile off his enemy's face made Mal's heart sing. As if guessing Mal's thought, Blaise only smiled the more. The battle was already over, and Mal had lost.

Mal swallowed against the soreness where the chain had pressed just below his Adam's apple.

"You're going to kill us both."

"If necessary, yes. But my father would prefer one of you to live. I can't imagine why."

I can. He thinks Erishen knows about him, and he wants to know how much. Truth is, I'd like to know myself.

He tried to marshal his thoughts into an argument that could convince Blaise of his father's perfidy, but could conjure nothing he had not already said.

"Why this farce?" he asked Blaise at last. "Why not just slit our throats?"

"You must have a chance to repent. And it would be such a messy death, don't you think?"

Blaise produced a small linen pouch, and from it sprinkled powder onto the brazier. After a moment the acrid scent of the skraylings' dream-herb rose into the damp air. Hope bloomed in Mal's breast. If Suffolk – or rather Jathekkil – was invoking the same dream-magic as Kiiren had done, what was to stop Sandy from spiriting them both out of here?

As the smoke drifted up around the captives, a delicious feeling of lassitude washed over Mal and he slumped back against the pillar, watching the delicate play of light on the curved brick wall opposite. His brother's fingertips were hot as coals against his own, pulsing in time with Mal's heartbeat. Their flesh melded together, like two steel bars beaten into a single sword blade.