The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(143)

She shook her head. "She cannot afford another servant, not now. And what would I do? Sew clothes for her? It is all I know how to do. That, and running around after actors."

"And lock picking," Ned added with a grin. "I know a few fellows who might take you on."

"I would prefer to earn my bread honestly, thank you very much."

"You never did tell us how you learnt the trick of it," Ned replied, unabashed.

"I'm just good with my hands," she said. She thought of the trapdoor again, but it only brought back pangs of guilt. "I think I'm better off plying my needle."

"Come to the Prince's Men," Parrish said, putting his hand on her wrist. "Burbage always has need of reliable tiremen. Most of them are quarrelsome drunks or thieves, by his account."

She shook him off.

"I do not think so. I have had enough of actors."

The truth was, she too wanted to forget about the fire. The thought of entering the Curtain, or any other theatre, filled her with dread. She heard again the roar of flames and felt the heat singeing her face.

"You are still in love with… him," Gabriel said softly.

She nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

"Then go to him," he went on. "Tell him how you feel–"

"He knows," she said wretchedly. Faulkner was smirking, the vile whoreson. "How could he not, after…"

"And?"

"And nothing. I haven't seen him since we got back to London. What if–"

"Do not dwell on such things. The ambassador would not let that happen to his dear friend, the brother of his beloved."

"You really believe what the ambassador told us?" Ned put in. "That Sandy is his long lost love reborn?"

"I saw him appear out of thin air on that boat," Gabriel said, turning to Ned. "If the skraylings can do that…"

"Yes, but…" She sighed. "It is too much to take in."

"Trust me, it will all work out in the end. Catlyn loves you."

"He does?"

Her heart tightened, hardly daring to believe. Mal desired her, he had made that plain, but she was not such a fool as to mistake that for love.

"I saw the look on his face when you embraced him," Parrish said. "It was the look of a man who loves in spite of his own misgivings." He laughed softly and tightened his arm around Ned. "I should know."

At that moment Master Eaton returned with more beer.

"Here you go," he said, sliding a tankard across the table.

Coby took a deep draught, hoping to calm her nerves.

"Think on my advice," Parrish said. He clapped his hands together. "So, who's for a game of skittles?"

Mal stood before the gates of the stockade. It seemed a lifetime since he had first come here and been half-affrighted out of his wits by the strange music from within. He waited patiently whilst the gate guard informed the ambassador of his arrival.

He was shown through the camp to the same small tent where he had stayed after Bartholomew Fair. Sandy was lying on a heap of cushions, eyes closed and one of the skrayling lodestone necklaces about his throat. The air was thick with the scent of shakholaat.

"How is he?" Mal asked, sitting down on the opposite side of the brazier.

"At peace. For now."

"He used magic to get away from the cellar, didn't he? If he could do that, why did he not try sooner?" It would have saved us all a lot of trouble.

"You are not strong enough to be his anchor."

"But you are?"

Kiiren nodded. "If you had told me about him more soon… Instead I hear it from your friend Hendricks."

Mal looked away. This was not his fault, how could it be? He knew nothing of skrayling magic, wanted nothing to do with it.

"I have been looking at symbols your friend Hendricks drew," Kiiren said, reaching inside his robe.

"The ones from Grey's desk? Are they skrayling writings?"

Kiiren held them under the lamp-stand and stared at them for several moments. "Yes, I believe so. They look very like ancient script of my people. Added to your witnessing, it is enough proof that Suffolk is… Guiser, as you call them."

"Was. Suffolk is dead."

Kiiren looked aghast.

"No. Then where–?"

Mal told the ambassador of his fears, that Suffolk had chosen to be taken to Ferrymead House because of its closeness to the palace.

"If that is true," Kiiren said, "our enemies' reach is greater than we suspected."

"But surely he is no threat at the moment? He is not yet born. And even if the child is a boy, his father and elder brother inherit before him. He cannot come to the throne unless…"

"Unless they die. Yes."

They pondered a while in silence.

"What are we to do?" Mal asked at last.

"Now? Nothing. As you say, he is not yet born. And even with wits intact, he cannot be a threat to us for some years yet."

"Why are they doing this, these skraylings who become humans?"

Kiiren sighed. "Many thousands of years ago, my people were very few, fewer even than now. We were afraid we would die and disappear altogether, but then humans came and after much time became friends of us. But still there were not enough children for those who wished to be reborn. And so some took human form. Those that did grew proud, called themselves gods, and there was war…"