The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(40)
Again he came too close to the truth. Perhaps the best way to get him off the scent was to let him think the worst. She gave an exaggerated sigh.
"You are right, sir. I do love him, and I am ashamed of my unnatural desires." She gazed into his pale blue eyes. "Please, you will not tell anyone?"
Parrish's teasing expression gave way to a smug grin.
"I knew it!" He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Never fear, your secret is safe with me."
Coby turned back to the ceremony with a genuine sigh of relief. Her plan had worked for now, but she did not like to think what the consequences might be. She only hoped the actor would think twice about crossing swords – literal or figurative – with Master Catlyn.
"Your Excellency," said Leland, "this is Maliverny Catlyn, who has been appointed as your bodyguard whilst you sojourn in our city."
Mal swept the velvet cap from his head and bowed low, determined to hide his nervousness at all costs. When he raised his head again, the ambassador was staring at him. He knew, Mal was certain of it. He knew about that night nine years ago and was about to denounce him in front of the entire Court. He quelled the instinct to bolt as he had done at the Catherine Wheel. Perhaps he was mistaken and this was his guilt speaking.
Long moments passed, and still the skrayling held his gaze with inhuman amber eyes. A murmur, faint as a summer breeze, passed over the crowd.
Leland coughed. "Your Excellency?"
"Forgive my poor manners, Catlyn-tuur," Kiiren said. "Your service honours us."
Mal inclined his head and forced a smile.
"It is my honour to serve you, sir," he said with another bow.
Ambassador Kiiren smiled back, showing neat, even teeth. No fangs? A memory of iron pincers, and a bloody trophy held aloft, flashed before Mal's eyes. Sweet Mother of God, surely not?
The heralds blew a fanfare, and the princes rose from their seats.
"If you would come this way, Your Excellency," Leland said, guiding the skrayling party into the procession that was beginning to form.
Kiiren beckoned to his guards, who formed up before and behind him. Then he gestured to his new bodyguard to join them. Mal took up a position amongst the rearguard, heart still pounding from the confrontation with the ambassador, conscious of both the stares of the courtiers and the closeness of so many skraylings. This was something he was just going to have to get used to, he told himself.
The Prince of Wales led the company in solemn procession along the wharf to the main entrance of the castle complex. As they passed the Lion Tower the beasts roared, causing the skraylings to halt and look around them in alarm.
"No fear," Mal told the skrayling guards, hoping they knew Tradetalk. "No fear. All good."
They looked doubtful, but after a brief discussion in their own tongue they moved on, much to Mal's relief.
The procession continued across the moat, through the outer ward and under the Garden Tower, and thence to the innermost ward and the newly refurbished Great Hall. Yeoman warders in bright ceremonial uniforms flanked the doors, which stood wide open.
Inside, long tables had been set out covered in snowy linen and laden with baskets of bread and flagons of wine. The ambassador was invited to sit at the high table on Prince Robert's right hand; Mal took up his station behind Kiiren's chair, a not very subtle reminder to all present that the Crown took threats to this alliance most seriously. The elders were seated at the near end of the lower table and the skrayling guards lined up against the side wall, as close to their masters as was courteous.
Whilst the rest of the Court filed in, Mal stared up at the painted beams, trying to ignore the rumblings of his stomach. The flautists appeared on the makeshift minstrels' gallery and took up their positions. Trumpets sounded again, and a troupe of serving-men began carrying in an endless stream of silver and gold platters.
Mal tried not to stare and drool. Even his Cambridge college's Christmas Feast had not had so many courses and subtleties. There were pies in the shape of skrayling ships, with sails of crisp-fried bacon; open tarts filled with candied sweet potatoes and other exotic vegetables from the New World; and wines of every colour and type that Leland's cellars could supply. The latter were being consumed in larger quantities than even the most profligate courtiers were accustomed to; some of the dishes had been spiced with the fierce pepper favoured by the skraylings, and many a lord's face flushed and streamed with sweat as a result. The noise in the hall was deafening, quite drowning out the flautists in the gallery – which was no bad thing, to Mal's mind. One could take a compliment too far.
"You speak English very well," the Prince of Wales said.
"Thank you, Highness," Kiiren replied. "I learn from English travellers to our land. John Cabot and his men."
The prince paused, cup halfway to his lips. Some of the other guests glanced at one another.
"Cabot's second expedition disappeared nearly a hundred years ago," Prince Robert said quietly.
The skrayling inclined his head in agreement and smiled. The prince covered his confusion with a feigned cough, and dropped the conversation. After a discreet pause the other guests began murmuring together over this extraordinary revelation. From the little Mal could overhear, most dismissed it as a misunderstanding. The foreigners might parrot English speech, but only a fool would expect them to make sense.