The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(134)

A hand caught him under the elbow and pulled him to his feet. A pale face, worried eyes. Hendricks. She pressed the rapier hilt into his right hand. Cold steel. Yes. He placed his left thumb against the ricasso and slid it downwards onto the blade, wincing as the metal sliced his flesh. Blood flowed over steel, and the last of the fog cleared from his mind.

Ned lay sprawled at his feet. Blaise ran over to his father, seized the sword from Goddard's hand and ran the sergeant through in one powerful stroke. Goddard collapsed to his knees, weeping in realisation of what he had done, then pitched forward on his face. Blaise heaved Ivett's corpse off the duke's prone body.

"Father!"

"Grey." Mal's voice was hoarse, but it carried across the lowvaulted space. "Get up. You can mourn him later."

Blaise got to his feet. His face was pale, his eyes red and unfocused from the drugged smoke. "He's not dead."

"Something we can both be grateful for," Mal said. "Now let my friends take your father to the good doctor."

"Why should I trust you, demon?"

"Because there are three of us and only one of you."

"You shall not touch him."

"Then he'll die."

Blaise's mouth tightened in frustration, but he stepped away from his father. Ned lifted the duke's shoulders and Hendricks took his feet, her eyes never leaving Blaise.

"I could call my men," Blaise said.

"What men?" Hendricks put in. "Two, no, three are dead. One has been driven mad with fear, which leaves an elderly steward, a doctor and your porter. Unless there are others I haven't seen."

Blaise advanced on her, white with fury.

"Who do you think you are, whelp, to speak to me like that?"

She smiled. "Ned, drop your end."

"No!" Blaise halted, trembling with the effort at self-control.

Hendricks inclined her head in acknowledgment and began to back away towards the cellar steps. Mal waited until they had left.

"So, will you let us go freely?" he asked Blaise.

"You know I can't do that."

"Then we are at an impasse." Mal hefted his blade.

"You won't get far," Blaise said. "There's a palace full of royal guards just over the river."

"And your family," Mal said, "how far will they get? A prince and his most trusted advisor, repeated through the generations?"

"I can only aspire to my father's level of power and influence."

"You still don't see what he is, do you? You think he is merely the Duke of Suffolk, loyal servant of the Crown and mentor to the Prince of Wales."

"Merely? What more is there?"

"The throne itself," Mal replied.

"I desire no such thing, and I will cut dead the man who even whispers such treason in my presence."

Mal stooped and drew his dagger from its scabbard. Grey picked up the cloak in which Mal's blades had been wrapped and flipped it around his hand for protection. Goddard's weapon was shorter and heavier than a rapier, and therefore slower, but no less effective. Mal had borne such a sword himself in times of war, and seen what it could do to an unarmoured man.

Both adopted the seconda guardia position – sword held horizontally and waist-high – with left hands held out to one side, ready to catch an incoming blade on dagger or cloak. Mal watched and waited, allowing Grey's impatience to do most of his work for him. No flurry of blows here, like actors on a stage – a real duel was a mind game, out-thinking your opponent in order to get in that one deadly blow.

After a few more moments of watching and pacing, Mal made his move, a swift thrust to his opponent's right side, well away from the entangling cloak. Grey sidestepped and parried down and outwards. A rapid disengage and counter-thrust almost skewered Mal in the guts, but he turned sideways at the last moment and the blade passed a hair's breadth from his flesh. Grey withdrew, and they resumed their guard positions.

"How did your brother escape?"

"How should I know?" Mal replied. "I was tied up and drugged. One of my friends must have cut him free."

Grey lunged, his sword point aimed straight for Mal's heart. Mal parried with his dagger whilst his own blade snaked upwards in a counter-thrust towards his opponent's face. Grey swirled the cloak, enveloping the rapier and deflecting it past his ear. Mal leapt backwards, withdrawing his blade before the weight of the cloak could wrench it from his grasp.

The edge of the cloak swept across the brazier and caught fire. Grey dodged behind the pillar, shaking off the burning fabric. That left his off-side vulnerable. Mal manoeuvred around the pillar to his own right. A thrust through the guts would finish off his opponent for good. He recalled Leland's instructions. Don't let it happen again.

"We can stop this any time you like," Mal said, stepping back a pace.

"I'll stop when you're dead at my feet, demon."

To Hell with Leland's instructions. He thrust towards Grey's vulnerable side. Grey tried to bring his blade around in time to parry but the pillar blocked his way. The point of the rapier pierced doublet, shirt, and slid between his ribs.

Grey's eyes widened as Mal withdrew the blade. He clutched the wound, trying to draw breath, and staggered against the pillar. The sword fell from his hand. Grey looked up, eyes hard as flint. His mouth worked but no words came out.