The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(16)

"You are Naismith's tiring man?"

"Yes, sir. Jacob Hendricks, sir."

"I am John Dunfell, His Grace's private secretary." He motioned her aside, out of earshot of the workmen. "It has come to my attention that this theatre–" he broke off and looked around at the building with a grimace of distaste "–will be required in the entertainments for the Ambassador of Vinland."

"Indeed, sir."

"Indeed. Well, we must not disappoint or embarrass His Grace. I have therefore been charged with overseeing the completion of the building."

Coby nodded, unsure why she was being told this information. Unless Master Naismith did not yet know?

"If you wish me to convey any message to my master–"

Dunfell held up his hand. "Master Naismith is already informed of my intent. It was you I wished to see."

"Me, sir?" Her voice cracked, and she hid her embarrassment with a cough.

"You are a bright, trustworthy lad," Dunfell said, placing an avuncular arm across her shoulders. "Naismith would surely not rely on you otherwise. A man of talent can go far, with the right patronage, howsoever humble his birth. Your father is a tailor, I am told."

"Yes, sir," she lied; in truth he was a locksmith, but how else to explain her skill with a needle? "But… he may be dead for all I know."

"An orphan? Well, that need be no obstacle. It is in my power," he leaned closer, "to offer you preferment in the duke's service."

"That would be very generous of you, sir."

"Of course you would have to prove your worth."

"Sir?"

"A small task only. And, I am sure, well within your power." When Coby did not reply, he went on. "There is a man whom you may know, one Maliverny Catlyn. He lives in Bankside, or thereabouts."

Catlyn. Where had she heard that name before? Oh, no. Not him.

"Ah, you do know him, then?" Dunfell said.

"By sight, sir, that is all."

"Then you are to acquaint yourself further with this gentleman, and report back to me what you find. His history, character…"

"You want me to spy on him, sir?"

Dunfell nodded approvingly. "I knew you were a sharp lad when I set eyes on you. And a discreet one too, I'll warrant."

"Of course, sir."

"As you may be aware," he said, lowering his voice, "His Grace takes a great interest in all the affairs of our allies the skraylings, the better to advise His Highness the Prince of Wales. It has come to His Grace's attention that the skraylings are by no means as united as we have been led to believe. There is dissension amongst their ranks –" he pursed his lips in disapproval "– even with regard to the ambassador being sent to England."

"That is indeed grievous news," Coby said.

"Indeed. Worse still, this fellow Catlyn, who has been appointed as the ambassador's bodyguard, may owe his position to the scheming of the ambassador's own enemies. Our very alliance with Vinland could be at stake."

Coby stared at Dunfell. "This – this is too great a task for me, sir, I cannot–"

"Nonsense. I ask but a small thing, do I not? A mere acquaintance, a few questions asked as of a new friend… Surely I do not need to tell your master of your disloyalty?"

Coby shook her head miserably.

"Very well," she said. "I will do what I can to make friends with this man."

Ned sat at a table by himself, nursing a pint of beer and keeping an eye on the door. His stomach growled. If Mal didn't turn up soon, he'd be having dinner by himself.

The low-ceiling taproom held the July heat like a brick oven, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke and laughter. A favourite of both of Southwark's principal companies of players, the Bull's Head was the natural resort of every hireling actor on the lookout for work, as well as those gentlemen whose pleasure it was to mingle with the more famous denizens of the city's underbelly.

Ned spotted Gabriel Parrish weaving through the crowd, his bright hair unmistakable in the shadowy taproom. No wonder he had earned the nickname "Angel" before ever he ventured onstage. Ned sighed, remembering how those forget-me-not blue eyes could darken with pleasure in an instant.

Just as it seemed Gabriel would pass by without a sign of recognition, he paused and looked straight at Ned. He did not smile, but at least he did not frown or sneer. Ned swallowed past the lump in his throat, and found himself getting to his feet almost against his will.

"Gabe." He never called Parrish by his nickname in public. It didn't seem right, somehow.

"Ned."

"I heard you were back in London."

"As you see."

"So I thought–"

"Naismith doesn't like me even talking to you." Gabriel glanced back the way he had come. "He thinks you would lure me back to the Admiral's Men."

"Does he have a reason to fear it?" Ned replied, hope rising in his breast.

"Not at all."

"Pity."

There was a moment's awkward silence.

"I suppose," Gabriel said, "you've not lacked for work since the playhouses reopened?"

Ned grinned. "You angling to find out what play Henslowe has chosen for this contest?"