The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(30)

"Have you made any progress in the matter we spoke of?" he asked in a low voice.

"I- I found a letter," she said, "though it was only to his sweetheart."

"What did it say?"

"It was addressed to a lady named Jane, who has three sisters, and said he would be visiting her on the twenty-second of September."

"After the competition? Well, no matter. Go on."

"That is all, sir. I did not have time to read more."

"You do not have it."

"No, sir, I–" She could not tell Dunfell she had been caught red-handed.

"More than a month, and this is all you have found out? I must say I am disappointed. Very disappointed indeed." He wrinkled his pointed nose, as if she were a smear of dog shit on his shoe. "After all I have done for you and your master, I expected greater efforts to follow my instructions."

Coby hung her head and tried to look contrite.

"Needless to say," he went on, "I shall not be recommending you for a place in the duke's household. You may consider my own patronage of your career at an end."

She inclined her head submissively, though she was secretly relieved. The last thing she wanted was to work for such an odious man. She would rather take her chances amongst the actors, even at the risk of exposure.

"This is very good, Lodge," Master Naismith said, scanning a page. "Here, Dunfell, is this not most excellently written?"

Seeing Lodge bristle in anticipation of another argument, Coby put in, "Begging your pardon, Master Lodge, but why did you set it in Athens instead of the New World?"

"It is not your place to question your betters' judgement," Dunfell snapped.

Lodge looked taken aback at this unexpected ally, though Coby guessed it was only anger at herself that made Dunfell side with the playwright.

"No, let the boy speak," said Master Naismith. "'Tis a fair point."

Master Lodge launched into a long explanation full of words and allusions Coby did not understand. When he eventually paused for breath, Naismith put in: "Our scholarly colleague's point is, have you ever heard of these Peascod folk?"

"No, sir," Coby replied.

"And how much do you think the average playgoers know of them?"

"Not much, sir."

"Your first answer was nearer the mark. No, there is no drama in telling a tale of lands so far away that no one knows their names. No resonance with the audience, see? Instead, Master Lodge has taken the tale and reshaped it into something even the penny stinkards can make sense of. That's how you get bums on seats, lad."

Lodge gathered up his mess of papers into what Coby hoped was the correct order, and she stuffed them into her satchel. A skrayling play in a skrayling-sponsored theatre – let the Admiral's Men top that!

CHAPTER VIII

After church on Sunday morning Mal visited Bethlem Hospital again. To his relief his brother was improving, in both body and spirit. Either Mistress Cooke was being true to her word and giving him more care now Mal was a regular visitor, or… No, he could not let himself dare to think it. Sandy had had lucid spells before, but they never lasted.

The weather had turned cooler again, and they stayed indoors all morning. Mal had bought a book in Paul's Yard which he thought Sandy might like. Something to dispel evil humours, and bring his thoughts to greater order and harmony.

"'The Whetstone of Wit'," Sandy read out, "'which is the second part of Arithmetic: containing the extraction of roots; the cossike practice, with the rule of equation; and the works of surd numbers'." He looked up at Mal. "It's just abridged Euclid, you know."

"You've read it."

He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but Sandy knew him too well.

"I've read everything here a hundred times." He gestured to the small pile of volumes by his bed. "Something twice- or thrice-read will seem fresh in comparison."

Sandy settled down to read the mathematics treatise whilst Mal took out his lute. It took some time to tune, being so sensitive to the changes in the weather. The room was oppressively warm now, and he wondered if he should suggest they go outside, but it was looking like rain again. August was always a race to get the harvest in before the heavens opened.

He started as Sandy clapped his book shut with a loud thump.

"No," Sandy whispered, turning pale.

"What is it?"

Mal went to the door and pressed his ear against the rough wood. A burst of laughter came from downstairs. Not the hysterical shrieks and giggles of the inmates, but a colder, more mocking sound. Visitors.

He looked around. Mistress Cooke had locked the door as usual, but what if she opened it from the outside? Surely she would not do that with Mal in here, but if one of the gentlemen flashed a little gold in her direction, she might think it worth the risk.

"Help me move the bed against the door," he told Sandy, keeping his voice low but firm.

Sandy clutched the book to his chest, his face rigid with fear. Mal sighed and leant his weight against the door, ready to resist entry bodily if need be. He was not about to attract attention to their cell by setting off one of Sandy's fits.

Mal remained at his vigil for what felt like hours, listening to Mistress Cooke and her husband's sycophancies and the cruel laughter of the visitors, and watching Sandy twitch every time footsteps came near their door. Eventually the ward fell silent and Mal returned to his brother's side. This was not going to be easy.