The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(41)

The Duke of Suffolk cleared his throat.

"If the effort of speaking our tongue grows wearisome, Your Excellency, you are welcome to use the services of my man Lodge. He speaks Vinlandic very well, I am told."

"Thank you for your kind offer, my lord, but I am senlirren. Outspeaker. It is my duty to speak for my people; I have trained my whole life for this."

Suffolk's face was a mask of politeness. He could hardly press Lodge's services upon the ambassador further, but the snub clearly rankled. Mal wondered what the duke felt he had to prove. He was already a member of the Privy Council and a confidant of both the Queen and her elder son. On the other hand he was not a young man, and perhaps he feared a fall from grace once Prince Robert succeeded to the throne.

After yet another showpiece dish – a roast peacock in gilded pastry, with its tail feathers arranged as if in life – had been brought in and presented to the bemused ambassador, Leland got to his feet, and the trumpets blared.

"Pray silence for His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales!"

A hush fell over the company, then everyone stood up in a deafening scraping of wood on tiles.

"Once again, I welcome our guests to this our fair city," Robert said, when the noise had died down, "and to the seat of my ancestors of blessed memory. May this be only the first of many visits, which will confirm and seal the alliance between our two peoples for all time."

He continued in this vein at some length. Mal scanned the company, wondering how many of the courtiers shared their prince's sentiments. Some had profited immensely from the new goods and ideas brought to England by the skraylings, but many felt threatened by the skraylings' mysterious devices, and even more by their dogged refusal to convert to Christianity. The erstwhile interpreter, Thomas Lodge, watched the ambassador from his place at one of the lower tables, his complexion flushed with wine and ill-concealed jealousy.

"… and in token of that friendship and fellow-feeling," Prince Robert was saying, "I hereby announce that there will be a contest between the city's three finest companies of players, to be judged by Your Excellency, if you would do us the honour."

Mal glanced from one patron to another. Prince Arthur's regal calm was spoilt by the twinkle of boyish delight in his blue eyes, the Lord High Admiral sat back in his chair with a confident smile on his face, and even Suffolk's grim visage softened a little at the compliment to his retainers.

"This sharing of tradition is most pleasing to us, Your Highness," Ambassador Kiiren said, and bowed low.

The prince inclined his head in acknowledgment and took his seat. At this signal, servants began clearing away the dishes, and the courtiers took advantage of the bustle to gossip about the contestants' relative merits.

When the servants were done, Leland stood up and cleared his throat.

"It is my great honour, sir, to be your host for your visit. You are no doubt weary after your long journey; allow me to escort you to your quarters."

Mal sent up a silent prayer that the skraylings would baulk at being housed in a dismal fortress, but the saints were not on his side today.

"Thank you, Sir Leland," Kiiren said. "We are greatly honoured by your hospitality. As we say in my homeland, 'Friendship is forged in cooking-fire'."

"Ah, yes, indeed," Leland replied. "Very… profound, sir. Catlyn, will you lead the way?"

Mal escorted the ambassador's party up the steps to the nowfamiliar apartments. Two of the ambassador's attendants followed him through the door, carrying a large trunk made of dark polished wood. They set it in the middle of the room, then left again. Another trunk followed, and another, then four more skraylings appeared carrying armfuls of some kind of matting. This latter was laid before the hearths in both rooms, after the rushes had been swept aside. From one of the trunks the skraylings brought forth several small translucent bowls which they placed on the hearths and tables in both rooms and filled with clear liquid that soon began to glow like the lamps of the stockade.

So that was their magic. An alchemical secret – and a bargaining chip to be kept back for future negotiations? England's enemies would certainly love to get their hands on anything that made the creation and control of fire – and therefore guns – easier and more efficient.

At last the attendants seemed to be satisfied the rooms were comfortable, and all but two of them retreated to the dining room. Mal breathed out, a deep breath he had been unaware of holding. Kiiren looked around, an expression of puzzlement plain upon his face. Mal cleared his throat. They are just people, he told himself, in a strange land far from home.

"How can I help you, Your Excellency?" he asked. As an afterthought, he made an obeisance in the skrayling fashion, as he had seen the elders do, inclining his head back and to his right rather than bending forward. It felt like he was inviting a blow. He straightened up hurriedly, discomfited by the experience. As a gesture of submission, it was far more effective than any bow.

"Perhaps you can tell me where I sleep?" Kiiren said.

Mal led him to the bedchamber, trying to shake off the feeling of vulnerability his action had aroused. He held the curtains of the bedstead aside whilst the ambassador peered at the interior, head cocked on one side. Was the young skrayling really so ignorant of English customs, Mal wondered, or was he waiting to see Mal make a fool of himself?

"It's a bed," Mal said. "You sleep on it."