The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(36)

"Simpler than this, then," Leland said, handing Mal the piece of paper he'd been studying.

The sheet of paper bore three short sentences written in clear round-hand.

Kaal-an rrish, senlirren. Kaalt tokuur London-an iin tuuraq. Iin kaal-an lish hendet tutheeq.

"His Grace the Duke of York insists the visitors are greeted in their own tongue," Leland said with a pained expression. "Wanted me to do the whole damned speech in it, but the Queen's ministers argued him out of it, thank the Lord."

"It certainly looks very odd," Mal replied.

"That's what I told Lodge here, though he swears he has it aright."

"I spent nigh on a year in Vinland," Lodge said, his pale eyes glinting. "I promise you, Sir James, this is their tongue, faithfully transcribed to the best of my skill."

"It had better be, sirrah, else Her Majesty will have you swinging from a gibbet faster than you can say 'Hey nonny nonny'."

Lodge muttered something under his breath, but did not press the point. Leland took back the sheet of paper, folded it up and slipped it into a pocket. Gesturing to his guests to sit down, he took his own place at the head of the table. The servants brought in dinner, and whilst they ate Leland regaled his guests with stories of the Tower's long history and its more colourful inhabitants, whilst Monkton tried unsuccessfully not to look bored.

"Do you smoke?" the playwright asked, holding out a leather tobacco pouch whilst tamping down his own pipe with a yellow-nailed thumb.

"Thank you, no," Mal said.

"Quite right too," Leland said. "Damned filthy foreign habit."

Lodge shrugged. He went over to the fire and lit his pipe with a bit of kindling.

"Of course it wouldn't do to say that in front of the ambassador," Leland added. "Help yourself to more wine, Catlyn."

"Perhaps Master Lodge could tell us more about his adventures in the New World," Mal said. Better put the man at ease, if he was going to get anything useful out of him.

"Absolutely," Leland put in. "Do enlighten us, Lodge. Did you see any of their women? What are they like?"

Mal leant in closer, curious to know if Lodge had better information on the topic than young Hendricks.

"I regret to say I cannot confirm their existence, except in legend," Lodge replied. He paused to suck on his pipe. "Though I sailed all along the coast of Vinland and round the Isles of Antilia, I was unable to gain admittance to the Seven Cities. The race dwelling therein is quite different from the skraylings who visit our shores, and they are not welcoming to strangers."

"They are hostile?" Monkton asked.

"No," Lodge said. "Merely aloof. Almost monastic, one might say."

"But no women, eh?" Leland said.

"That was the peculiar thing," Lodge replied. "My skrayling guides referred to the city-dwellers as iiseth, which in other contexts translates as 'women', but from the little I saw of them, I can only assume it was a misunderstanding. The citizens were squat burly folk with bluish skin and short raven-black hair. They wore no face paint but in other respects were unmistakably skraylings."

"Perhaps the word was intended as an insult," Mal suggested.

"No," Lodge said, "my guides were very respectful towards them."

"No accounting for foreigners, eh?" Leland said.

"Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm for bed," Lodge said. He tapped out his pipe on the hearth, refilled his goblet and carried it off with him.

When the playwright had gone, Leland went over the arrangements for the visit at length: who would be attending the arrival ceremony, which noblemen were out of favour and especially to be watched, and the duties expected of Mal.

"Day and night, mind," Leland said in conclusion. "I want no assassins creeping up on our guests whilst they are my responsibility."

"Will the skraylings not bring their own bodyguards?" Mal asked.

"Undoubtedly," said Leland. "But what do they know of Christians? Can they even tell an Englishman from a Spaniard?"

"Even if they could," Monkton said, "I hardly think our enemies would be so clumsy as to send one of their own openly."

"Perhaps not." Leland drained his glass, and looked at Mal, his eyes narrowing. "But there are plenty of Papist sympathisers here in London. A man who could claim to have broken up our alliance with the skraylings would find rich rewards in Spain. Or France."

Mal nodded. "Sark."

"Quite. The French haven't forgiven us for handing the island over to the skraylings."

"I will be most vigilant," Mal assured him. "No villain will get within five yards of His Excellency, I swear."

As Ned walked home from the Bull's Head, the sun was sinking between the houses at the far end of Bankside in a blaze of gold. Perhaps that was why he didn't see the man standing in his path until it was too late.

"Scuse me." He tried to step around the fellow, who was built like the piers of London Bridge, the ones they called "starlings". The man clamped an enormous hand on Ned's shoulder.

"We want a word with you, sirrah," a voice hissed in his ear.

Ned tried to turn, and found himself being pushed into an alley by two men. Alleys he was used to, but two men at once was more than he cared to handle.