The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(141)

"None, sir."

Walsingham nodded. "Good. I do not think the prince wishes to offend the Vinlanders, and if Suffolk is in any way guilty…" He spread his hands.

Mal let out a long breath. Baines was still watching him suspiciously, but without Walsingham to back him up the intelligencer could do nothing.

"You will remain in custody–" Walsingham began.

Mal froze.

"–in my home, under house arrest," he went on, "until such time as this business with the skraylings can be smoothed over. Baines?"

"Thank you, sir," Mal said, relief washing over him. At least he wasn't being sent to the Tower.

Walsingham waved him away, and Baines drew back the bolts on the door, a sour look on his face.

"Nice move, college boy," the intelligencer said as they walked back through the palace.

"What do you mean?" Mal asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Throwing it back on the skraylings. Gets you off the hook, gives them a way to placate His Highness. You'll go far in this business."

"You think Walsingham will employ me again, after what I've done?"

Baines laughed. "He likes men with guts. Just don't get too big for your boots, all right?"

Mal nodded. He had not even considered a career as an intelligencer until now; there had been too much else to think of in the past couple of weeks. Secrets, lies and a blade in each hand: wasn't that what he'd excelled in, all these years?

CHAPTER XXXVII

Mal sat in the window of the guest chamber, picking out a melancholy galliard on his lute. Say what you like about Walsingham, he was gentleman enough to send for Mal's belongings from the Tower. No doubt Baines had pawed through them, but it was a small price to pay. At least the rosary was safely hidden at Ned's house.

A sudden knock at the door made Mal start, and his fingers slipped on the lute strings.

"Come in," he said.

Baines opened the door, but did not enter. "Walsingham wants to see you."

Mal went down to the parlour and found Walsingham seated at the table, poring over a map. Mal coughed politely, and waited. After several minutes Walsingham looked up and beckoned him over.

"Suffolk is dead," Walsingham said without preamble. "The doctor says it was blood fever, from the leg wound."

"Common enough," Mal replied, trying to keep his voice as calm and level as the spymaster's. Certain as he was that Suffolk had taken his own life, he could hardly tell Walsingham that. "I've seen men half his age succumb in less time."

"Indeed. Which means we have only His Grace's word for what happened."

"But – Ah. You mean Blaise. He lives?"

Walsingham inclined his head. "Doctor Renardi was able to save him, though he is sorely wounded and may not rise from his bed for many weeks. He was not too ill to speak of his own part in this, however."

Mal stiffened, wondering what was coming next.

"Grey is young and hot-headed," Walsingham went on, "but apparently not as wild as we were led to believe. He claims that only obedience to his father's wishes made him espouse views against the skraylings, and that he is loyal to Prince Robert and the Queen. In view of this filial loyalty, Her Majesty has been prevailed upon to spare him a decree of attainder."

The cunning devil. It was the truth, in so far as it ran. And Mal could not contradict it without revealing everything he knew about the late duke. Did Blaise still refuse to believe Mal's claims that his father was possessed by a skrayling? Almost certainly. Mal would never have believed them himself a month ago.

"Did he say anything else?" Mal asked.

"Only that one of the Catlyn brothers attacked him, but he confesses he cannot be certain which one. And since the Crown cannot bring a case without a suspect, that is an end to the matter."

Odd. Blaise must surely remember fighting Mal, unless the blood loss from his injury had weakened his mind. Or someone had persuaded him that he did not want Ambassador Kiiren as an enemy.

"Then I am free to go?" Mal asked.

"So it seems," Walsingham replied. He picked up a leather purse that lay on the table. "I think you will go far in Her Majesty's service."

"Sir?"

"Do not look so surprised. Your methods may have been unorthodox, but by exposing Suffolk as the leader of the Huntsmen you have cut the heart out of a dreadful conspiracy."

Mal wished it were true. But if Suffolk were dead, he had failed after all. And the Huntsmen remained untouched.

"A pity we did not catch more of them," Walsingham added.

"Oh? I hoped–"

"That Wheeler and his confederates were Huntsmen? So did we all. Alas they knew nothing. A band of petty malcontents: failed actors, tradesmen whose crafts have been superseded by skrayling wares, those sorts of fellows. Naught they could tell us led back to known Huntsmen's crimes."

"A pity indeed," Mal said, hoping his relief did not show. Wheeler's hysterical ravings had meant nothing then. It was a small consolation. Very small.

Walsingham slid the purse across the table. "A reward for loyal service."

Mal loosened the strings and looked within. The purse contained at least five pounds in gold angels. Not a king's ransom, but more than he had seen in a good long while.