The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(37)

"Look, gentlemen, I'm happy to have all the words you want, but is this the place for it?"

Starling slammed him against the wall. "Shut yer gob!"

First they want a word, then they want me to shut up, Ned thought. I wish they'd make up their minds.

At last he got a look at the second man, or at least as good a look as could be managed in the shadows. He was about Ned's own height, a slight, weasel-faced man wearing a fustian doublet that had seen better days. Ned felt sure he had seen the fellow before, but then there were plenty like him in Southwark.

"You a friend of that whoreson Maliverny Catlyn?" Weasel Face asked.

"What?"

"You 'eard him." Starling took Ned's left bicep in his huge fist, and squeezed.

"Ow, yes, yes I know him. But not all that well–" He clenched his teeth against the pain as the big man squeezed again.

"You sure about that?"

"Yes," Ned gasped.

Starling squeezed, his iron-hard nails biting into the muscle, until Ned was sure his fingers must meet in the middle. He felt tears welling in the corners of his eyes, but he refused to make a sound. He'd had worse than this from some of his customers.

"That's enough," Weasel Face said. "We're not getting anywhere."

The iron grip loosened and Ned sagged against the wall, nursing his bruised bicep.

"Nah," he went on, "there's a much easier way to get what we want."

Ned looked up. There was something in the man's voice that made his flesh creep.

"Got your attention, have I? So, you're going to tell me everything you know about Catlyn."

"And if I don't?"

"Well, now, let's see." The man took a knife from his belt and began paring his nails. Ned watched him, waiting for the threat to come. Sweat trickled down the back of his shirt. The knife didn't look particularly sharp, but depending on what they had in mind, it might not need to be. He weighed up his options. The big man wasn't holding him. How far could he get before they grabbed him again? Probably not far enough.

The knife slammed into a timber beside his ear.

"Don't think of running," Weasel Face said. "Won't do you no good anyway."

"Why not?"

"Because when you hear what I have to say, you'll be glad we're here with you and not somewhere else."

Ned stared at him.

"What's the phrase?" His captor leered. "Oh yes. 'We know where you live.'"

"You wouldn't," Ned growled.

"Ah, but we would, you see. And you'd better believe it." He sheathed the knife. "So, are you going to tell us what we want to know, or are me and my friend going to pay a visit to your dear, sweet, silver-haired old mother?"

The dream began in darkness, but this time it was different. One moment he was riding through the woods, surrounded by masked men, next thing he knew he was on foot and alone. The trees thinned and he found himself on open moorland. Short wiry grass rippled underfoot, though there was no wind. The sky above was a dull nacreous grey; not storm clouds, he realised with a shock, but a sky without moon or stars, as if all the lights of heaven had been smeared like paint across a black canvas.

The moor was studded with great limestone boulders, some taller than himself. Things lurked behind each one; he couldn't see them but he knew they were watching him. He wanted to turn and run but he knew they would pursue him. He looked beyond the boulders, wondering if he could slip past the waiting creatures. In the distance, warm lights burned here and there – farmsteads perhaps? No, too many. A town, a city even. The lights seemed to multiply before his eyes; a few winked out, but were replaced by more. He watched for what felt like an eternity, and eventually the lights began to disappear. He sensed the creatures' disappointment. They had been hoping he would try to cross the moor.

Then from the edge of sight came a new light, searing bluewhite that flooded his vision. He flung up his arms and squinted, desperate to see if this new arrival were friend or foe, but his eyes would not obey. He had to keep his eyes open or the others, the cruel ones, would be upon him in an instant–

Mal jerked awake. A valet was setting down a plate of bread and a tankard on a small table.

"Did you say something, sir? Anything I can get you?"

"No." His mouth was sour and sticky with sleep. "Wait. I need a clean shirt–"

"We have your new livery laid out ready, sir," the man replied.

"Livery? Oh, of course."

The valet snapped his fingers, and two body-servants stepped forward, linen towels draped over their arms. "Perhaps a shave, sir, before you break your fast?"

Mal gratefully accepted. The last thing he wanted was to turn up to the ceremony with bloody scrapes on his face. He got out of bed and took a chair by the hearth, leaning his head against its back and listening to the crackle of the kindling as the fire caught. Rain rattled against the many-paned windows. Autumn was coming early this year.

"Stayed at the Tower before, sir?" One of the body-servants brushed rose-scented lather onto Mal's cheeks whilst the other stropped a razor.

"Uhnnee unce," Mal replied, keeping his mouth shut against the soap.

"Grand place, sir. At least for those of us on the right side of the locked door, eh?" The servant gently turned Mal's head to one side and began scraping the dark stubble from around his beard.