The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(22)

"A convenient fiction. Your name was presented to me by the head of the skrayling merchant-venturers, on behalf of the ambassador himself."

"What? How–?"

"How did the name of an obscure country gentleman of no fortune come to the attention of the most important skraylings this side of the Atlantic? Why did they choose you, when there are so many worthier men at Court? I was hoping you could solve that conundrum for me."

"I– I have no idea, sir." It was truth, of a sort. If the skraylings knew anything about the Catlyns, surely they would have chosen someone – anyone – else. "There must have been a misunderstanding."

Walsingham smiled thinly. "Our dealings have been beset with misunderstandings, as I recall."

The letter he had received at college. The one with a discreet "W" seal.

"That letter was from you, sir?"

Walsingham nodded, and Mal silently cursed his former naivety.

"I thought it was a prank by one of the older students." Or worse, a trap to flush out Catholic sympathisers. "I could not believe the Queen's private secretary had any use for me. And besides, there were my studies to consider."

"The masters at Cambridge know better than to punish those in my employ for lack of attendance at lectures," Walsingham said. "Arrangements could have been made. We did it for Marlowe, after all."

"Kit Marlowe? But he's–" Playwright Christopher Marlowe had been killed at an eating-house in Deptford, back in May; a quarrel over the reckoning, or so rumour had it.

"Dead? Yes. A pity. Brilliant fellow, one of the finest poets of our age." Walsingham sighed. "A shame he kept such ill company."

His words finally sank in.

"Marlowe was a spy," Mal said.

"He served his queen and country." Walsingham laced his long pale fingers together. "The offer stands, Master Catlyn. Except that it is no longer an offer."

"I see."

"Do you?" The spymaster leant forward in his chair. "Our alliance with the skraylings is of paramount importance. If our enemies make any approach, friendly or otherwise, I need to know of it."

"Surely, sir, you have men far more skilled than I in such matters."

"Of course I do. Unfortunately, none will have such intimate access to the ambassador and his party as you."

Mal groped around for a counter-argument, but could think of nothing. Damn Leland! Bad enough to be working with skraylings; now he was expected to get close to them?

"I want to know with whom they speak," Walsingham continued, "whether any letters are sent or received, and if possible I would like those letters intercepted and copied. Baines will train you in the art of seal-cutting."

"Yes, sir."

"Also, you will not come here again unless instructed by Baines, do you understand?"

"Of course, sir. A spy is of little use if it is known he is working for you."

"Exactly."

"Then was it not unwise to invite me here at all?"

Walsingham smiled. "A calculated risk. I wanted to speak to you in person. And you have been appointed by the Crown, so what is more natural than that Her Majesty's secretary should wish an interview?"

Mal wordlessly indicated his agreement.

"One more thing," Walsingham said.

"Sir?"

"If you do find out why the skraylings asked for you, I want to be the first to know."

"Of course, sir." Over my dead body.

Walsingham went over to his desk and opened a drawer.

"I understand you negotiated a retainer from Leland."

"Yes, sir. Two shillings a day."

"Hmm." He held out a small purse. "For your expenses in carrying out your… additional duties. I am informed you do not share your brother's vices, so that should be more than adequate."

Mal decided it would be impolitic to count the money in front of the spymaster. "Thank you, sir."

Walsingham rang a small bell which stood on the desk, and Mal was shown out by the manservant. In the street, curiosity got the better of him and he took out the purse. Silver crowns and half-crowns met his gaze, not a fortune but more than enough to cover his daily needs for the next few weeks. Did Walsingham know about Sandy? By "brother" Mal assumed he had meant Charles, whose gambling habits had been the stuff of gossip since Mal was a child. Still, perhaps he should not visit Bethlem for a while, just in case.

He shoved the purse back in his pocket with a grunt of annoyance. Every time he thought his life could not possibly get any worse, Fate shat in his chamber pot again. Well, at least now he had some beer money to help him forget about it for another night. Except then Ned would want to know where the money came from. Christ's blessed mother! He stamped off down the street, cursing in every language he could remember, ignoring the stares and muttered comments from passers-by.

CHAPTER VI

The house in Culver Alley sagged between its neighbours like a drunk on his way home. Window shutters hung askew on their hinges, or were nailed shut. The decorative plaster work over the door had turned leprous with neglect, and the door itself was pitted and scarred, as if someone had tried to batter it down on more than one occasion.

Mal knocked. After a few moments footsteps approached the door, then after a short pause came the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door opened, though whoever had done so remained hidden behind it.