The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(17)

Gabriel looked around then sat down at the table, motioning for Ned to do likewise.

Ned sighed. "To be blunt, I don't know. He's got me working from dawn to dusk, copying sides for at least half-a-dozen different plays, and none of his men have been told anything definite either."

Gabriel made to leave, but Ned reached out and caught his wrist. The contact sent a shiver of pleasure down his arm to the base of his spine.

"I do know something that might interest you, though," he said. "Something better than finding out what the Admiral's Men are up to."

The actor sat down again. "Go on."

This time it was Ned's turn to glance around the taproom. There was still no sign of Mal.

"I have a friend. You've probably seen him in here with me a few times. Tall dark fellow, a bit foreign-looking."

"Oh yes, I remember him," Gabriel purred. "I thought it very unfair of you, keeping him all to yourself."

"It's not like that." Ned flushed. "He's not like that."

"You could have fooled me, darling."

Ned resisted the temptation to explain further. It was none of Gabriel's business. And this was going to be worth it in the end. Oh, yes.

"Do you want my news or not?" he asked.

Gabriel pouted and fingered his love-lock.

"I'm listening," he said.

"Well…" Ned leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

"No! You, my dear, are a treasure." He seized the front of Ned's doublet and kissed him on the mouth. "Bring him to our table when he arrives, and I promise you I will be very grateful."

? ? ? ?

"You told him what?"

Mal stared at his friend in despair. Why did he ever bother trying to keep secrets, with Ned around? Thank the Virgin Mary and all the saints Ned hadn't overheard the conversation with Grey. Had he?

"Everyone will know soon enough," Ned replied, frowning. "I don't know why you're making such a fuss."

Mal hesitated. He had come here hoping to strike up a conversation with Edward Alleyn, the leading actor of the Admiral's Men, but perhaps Parrish would do just as well. Anything to keep Ned quiet.

"Come on, then," he said with half-feigned irritation. "Best get this over with."

He followed Ned to a table near the fireplace. On one side sat Ned's former lover, along with a glum-faced fellow of about thirty whom Mal didn't recognise; opposite them were two actors he did know by sight, Henry Naismith and Rafe Eaton. Squeezed between this latter pair was the young tireman he'd seen at Goody Watson's.

All eyes were on Eaton, whose mellow baritone carried easily over the hubbub. Mal only caught the end of the tale he was spinning:

"… And then I say to him, 'By Heaven, sir, I would not marry her if she shat gold!'"

Everyone around the table laughed, apart from the boy, who smiled nervously and clutched his tankard closer. Ned took advantage of the pause in conversation to address the leader of the troupe.

"Master Naismith?"

The actor-manager looked up.

"What do you want, Faulkner? I thought I told you to stay away."

Parrish said, "Ned has brought someone to see you, sir."

"I'm not hiring."

"I'm not looking for work," Mal said. "I have… connections you may find interesting."

"Go on."

Mal leant closer. "The skrayling ambassador. I am to be his bodyguard."

Coby stared down into her tankard, hardly able to believe her luck. She had been wondering how on Earth she could contrive to meet this man again, and here he was.

"Well, you are welcome, sir," Master Naismith was saying. "Henry Naismith at your service. Leader of this humble band of players."

"Maliverny Catlyn." He bowed in courtly fashion. "I saw your Hieronimo in Cambridge a few years ago. Very moving."

"A pleasure to meet a man who appreciates the dramatic arts," Naismith said. "Is that why you were appointed to guard the ambassador?"

"I am not at liberty to say," Catlyn replied with a smile.

Rafe Eaton got to his feet.

"Any friend of Faulkner is a friend of yours, eh, Parrish? And any friend of Parrish is a friend of ours." He slapped Catlyn on the back. "Sit down, sir, sit down!"

To Parrish's evident disappointment, Catlyn did not take the proffered space on the settle but pulled up a stool and sat at the end of the table. Faulkner rested his elbows on the back of the settle, his left hand dangling inches from Parrish's head. The actor seemed oblivious to his presence, though Coby noticed how he leant back casually in his seat so that his hair brushed against Faulkner's fingers.

"Have you dined?" Master Naismith asked Catlyn.

"No, not yet."

"Please, be my guest," he said. He glanced at Faulkner and added, somewhat grudgingly, "Both of you."

Faulkner's eyes lit up, and he slid around the settle into the seat beside Parrish.

"We are only having the ordinary," Naismith told them. He turned to Coby. "Run and tell Joan we are now seven altogether, there's a good lad."

She squeezed past Rafe and Catlyn and went in search of the tavern cook. By the time she had returned from her errand, beers had been poured and Rafe Eaton was engaged in a lengthy account of their latest travels. She slipped onto the seat next to the actor so as not to disturb the performance. This put her opposite Faulkner, and on Catlyn's left.