The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(136)

On the slope above them, armed men were issuing from the house. Men in royal livery. And behind them, a tall figure in black and gold. Mal swore under his breath and bent to his oars. Hendricks craned her neck to see past Ned.

"Is that–?"

"Prince Robert, yes."

The royal guards ran down the slope and raised their crossbows. Mal pulled harder on the oars, expecting to feel the thud of a bolt any moment, but the missiles plopped harmlessly into the river around them.

"With any luck we'll be out of range before they can reload," Ned grunted.

Across the water more guards, this time carrying arquebuses, were running out of the palace.

"Say your prayers, lads," Mal muttered.

A second round of crossbow bolts whined through the air, and Ned yelped.

"Are you all right?" Hendricks asked him.

"Near miss," he grunted, pulling a bolt out of the woodwork beside him and tossing it in the river. "Told you I had the Devil's own luck."

Hendricks crouched in the thwarts, looking from bank to bank in horror. The arquebusiers lined up, primed their weapons hurriedly and raised them to their shoulders. Like a string of firecrackers the arquebuses erupted in noise and smoke – and something hit Mal's left shoulder like a sledgehammer. As the force of the impact ripped through his body, he let go of his oar. It bounced in the rowlocks and began to slip, very slowly, into the river.

"Christ and His Holy Mother!"

"Sir?"

"Get the oar," he told Hendricks through gritted teeth.

He glanced at his shoulder, which burned as if thrust through with a hot poker just above the collarbone. The black fabric of his doublet was torn and wet, the ragged hole scarlet around the edges, but the blood was not spurting from some vital conduit. That at least was a relief.

Ned continued to row, but with Mal incapacitated they were making slow progress. The arquebusiers began to reload. Mal used his uninjured arm to pull Hendricks towards him, turning her back to his belly so they could ply the oars as one. So small, she fitted into him like a lover… For a moment he rested his cheek against her hair, letting the pain melt into the distance, then they bent to the oars and pulled, and he ground his teeth against the fire in his shoulder.

The rumble sounded again from downstream, echoing across the water. Not thunder, nor, thank the Lord, more gunfire. Drums.

"Rehi!"

Mal spared a glance backwards. Sandy was waving to him from the prow of a large craft heading in their direction. The ambassador's barge.

The royal guards halted, looking to their captains, who motioned for them to lower their weapons. Prince Robert stood on the jetty, arms folded, watching the oncoming barge. Hendricks twisted round with a grin of relief, but her smile faded on seeing Mal's expression.

"The ambassador will save us, won't he?" she whispered.

The drumbeat changed and the rowers on one side shipped their oars. The barge began to turn in a wide arc.

"Come on, Mal!" Ned shouted, hauling on the oars.

The wash from the barge pushed against them, even as their efforts drove them on. Mal's vision began to go dark around the edges, until all he could see was the bright patch of his own blood on the girl's doublet in front of him, accusing him of failure. He turned towards the barge. The vessel's dark bulk loomed over them for a moment, and Mal felt sure its oars would rake the little skiff out of the water and tip it over like a child's toy. Then the barge was past, lurching side-on to the current as it turned back for London.

"Sandy!"

His brother looked round for a moment from where he stood in the barge's prow, arms wrapped about the diminutive skrayling. He gazed at Mal with dark eyes that seemed to look right through him, sparking a jolt of some buried memory that strove to reach the surface of Mal's mind but floundered like a drowning man and was gone. The barge swung round and Sandy disappeared from view behind its central canopy.

Dammit, now they really were on their own. Kiiren had what he came for, and he was leaving the rest of them to the wolves.





CHAPTER XXXVI

Coby turned to look at Mal. He was deathly pale, his eyes unfocused. Had he lost so much blood already? It was hard to tell against the blackness of his livery doublet. Without thinking she let go of both oars and put her palms to his face.

"Don't die on me," she whispered.

He coughed and managed a weak grin. "I'm in no fit state."

Over his shoulder she glimpsed a pale-haired figure in the stern of the barge, swinging a coil of rope. Gabriel Parrish. Moments later the rope sailed overhead and she flailed for it.

"Careful!" Faulkner shouted at her. "Here, take this and wrap it round the cleat."

He passed her a loop of rope. When she looked blank, he pointed to the two-pronged metal thing on the prow, where the painter was still tied. She clambered past Mal and wrapped the line around it as best she could before the retreating barge pulled the rope taut. Faulkner threaded the loose end under the thwarts and secured it, just to be certain.

"They could have bloody stopped to pick us up," Faulkner muttered. "Here, let me see him."

"I'm fine," Mal replied, waving him away.

Coby slid onto the thwart on his good side.

"You don't look fine," she told him.

"S'not the first time I've been shot at." He peered at the wound. "Closest, though."