The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(2)

"And I've no wish to spend another evening listening to your old comrades' tales of death and glory," Ned shouted after him. "At least at the Bull I might earn a shilling or two on my own account."

"Please yourself, but you go alone. I'll not be your pander."

Ned groaned. "All right, all right, you win. But you're buying."

The Catherine Wheel was as busy as a brothel mattress, and twice as pungent. The only difference was, the fleas here had steel teeth. Tucked away in a courtyard off the high street, the Wheel saw few outsiders venturing through its low door. Even if they did, one look told them to step back outside and seek somewhere more congenial. Somewhere the patrons still had the usual complement of eyes and limbs, for a start.

The first empty seats Mal came to were opposite a lone man who was muttering an endless stream of oaths into his beer, mostly about the French and their filthy sexual practices. Ned rolled his eyes in protest so they moved on, Mal nodding to various acquaintances who inclined their heads in response but failed to beckon him over. They found themselves a table near the back door; the stink of the jakes wafted in whenever someone went in or out, but at least it was unoccupied. Ned said something that was drowned by the sudden roar from a group of dice-players nearby, and stamped off. He returned a couple of minutes later with two jacks of beer, grumbling under his breath.

"Right, you owe me a penny," he said, sliding one of the beers across the uneven tabletop.

Mal forced a smile. Ned's remark was too near the knuckle. He needed to earn silver, and soon. The fellow at the next table looked more respectable than most; he was apparently unmaimed and wore a well-cut frieze jerkin. Private armies might have been outlawed, but in a city where the watch was poorly paid and often infirm, a man with money and property to defend always had need of a few stout fellows who knew how to handle themselves in a fight. Mal tried to catch the man's eye, but he was deep in conversation with his companions.

Ned leaned across the beer-damp table. "Any prospects?"

"None so far."

"Well we need something to tide us over. And this time of year the city's full of fools just waiting to be parted from their money."

"You know what I think of your… devisings."

"Look." Ned lowered his voice. "I'll deal the cards and do all the talking. All you have to do is bet against the gull, and feign drunkenness."

"How can I bet when I have no money?" Mal asked. He took a sip. The beer was no worse than usual. No better either.

"So you'll do it, then?"

"No. And don't try it alone, either." He glanced meaningfully towards the bar, where a man with a belly like a pregnant mare was wiping tankards with a rag. "Sideways Jack has no love for coney-catchers; he'll skin you alive if you ply your tricks in here."

"As if I would," Ned replied, all injured innocence. "Credit me with some wits, mate."

The door of the tavern opened, and the taproom fell silent. Four men came in, wearing dark blue livery, scarlet cloaks and steel breastplates and helmets, and bearing pole arms with long blades that glinted in the candlelight. The foremost of the guardsmen, a man of about thirty-five with a broken nose and the bearing of a professional soldier, cleared his throat.

"I am Captain Edward Monkton of the Tower Guard. I seek one Maliverny Catlyn, lately of the parish of St Mary Overie–"

"No one 'ere by that name," Sideways Jack said. "Sir."

Monkton scanned the room. Mal forced himself to sit still and neither try to hide nor catch the man's eye. Long moments passed in which Monkton's gaze alighted on first one patron of the tavern, then another. All were youngish men with dark hair.

The captain advanced into the taproom, peering into the shadows. Then he looked back at one of his men, who nodded. Mal exchanged glances with Ned. As one they leapt from their seats and ran for the blessedly near back door.

"What in Christ's name–?" Ned gasped as they raced across the back yard, slipping in puddles of piss left by customers who hadn't made it as far as the jakes.

"Damned if I know!" Mal replied. "Come on!"

The back gate was padlocked. He rattled it in frustration. Any moment now the guards would come bursting through the back door.

"You go over the fence." Ned crouched with his hands laced together, ready to give Mal a boost. "I'll hinder them."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes! God's teeth, get out of here!"

Mal scrambled over the rough wooden paling, wincing as a splinter dug into his thigh, and dropped down into the alley. He could hear the shouts of the guardsmen as they slithered around in the muddy yard, and Ned protesting his innocence. No time to hang around. He jogged off down the alley as fast as he dared in the near-darkness, hand on his dagger hilt.

"Hold, sirrah!"

Mal skidded to a halt. A helmeted figure was silhouetted in the lamplight at the end of the alley. "Goddamn beefeaters!" he muttered.

He turned and ran back the way he'd come, looking for a side turning, but there was none. As he passed the back gate of the Catherine Wheel, it crashed open and two of the other guardsmen cannoned into him, crushing him against the brick wall opposite. He ducked slightly, elbowed the nearest man in the belly and pulled himself free of the mêlée. A moment later a fist like a half-brick impacted with his temple and he slumped against the wall, head reeling.