The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(45)

"I…" Mal closed the box. "This is too rich a gift, Your Excellency."

"It is fashion of your people, is it not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then wear it, in honour of our visit."

Mal inclined his head in submission. Drawing his dagger he cut the silk ribbon threaded through his earlobe and replaced it with the pearl earring. The unfamiliar weight and movement would be a distraction for a while, but he supposed he had better get used to it. Much like the skraylings themselves.

"It's… beautiful."

Coby stood in the yard of the new theatre, gazing up at the painted canopy over the stage. On a background of deepest blue, figures representing the moon and planets paraded around a gilded sun, and the canopy itself was supported by thick pillars painted with such artifice, she would have sworn they were made of marble.

"Worth the wait, eh, sir?" Master Naismith said, beaming at Master Cutsnail. "Come, let's around to the tiring house and you can see it from within."

Coby followed them back out into the field and round the outside of the theatre to the back door. Master Naismith produced a large iron key and unlocked it, then ushered his business partner inside.

"This is where the players dress for their parts," Coby translated for Master Naismith.

The tiring room took up almost the entire ground floor behind the stage. Benches ranged down both sides, with pegs above them awaiting costumes. Already the room held a faint hint of the dusty, magical smell Coby always associated with the backstage of a theatre, though here it was masked by the resinous scent of new wood.

"What is this?" Cutsnail asked, going over to the staircase in the centre of the room.

"The under-stage, sir. Please, come this way."

Master Naismith stayed above whilst Coby and the skrayling went down to the cramped area under the stage, backs bent and heads scraping on the underside of the boards. Fresh sawdust drifted down on them at every footfall from above.

"Here we store all the engines needed for our play," Coby said, trying not to sneeze.

She pointed out the miniature wooden castle on its wheeled base, the pair of wave engines, and the cannon. The wave engines were her favourite, a pair of complicated contraptions of blue and green canvas sheets attached to cables, wheels and gears, long enough between them to span the entire stage and each powered by a crank handle at the off-stage end.

She ran a hand over the surface of a wave, making the canvas ripple like the real thing. "I wish I could show you how they work, but you will have to wait until the play is performed."

"And this is the new trapdoor?" Cutsnail gestured to the complex mechanism of timber, iron and wood in the centre of the under-stage.

"Yes, sir," Coby said, biting her lip and watching his reaction.

Cutsnail inspected the pulleys and gears, rubbing the engine grease between two fingers and sniffing it with professional interest. Coby unlatched the trap, then released the counterweight so that the bottom section rose smoothly upwards to become flush with the stage.

"There is another in the stage canopy," she added, "to lower gods and the like from the heavens. I can take you up to see it if you wish."

"Gods? I thought you Christians had only one god."

"Yes, but some of our plays are about ancient times, before Christ came to save us. In those days people believed in many different gods."

"Ah, I think I understand. But thank you, I have seen enough."

She showed Cutsnail back up to the tiring room and thence upstairs to the office. To her annoyance Dunfell had turned up, and was fussing over some paperwork with Master Naismith. The duke's secretary fell silent when he saw Master Cutsnail, however, his expression turning to one of guarded politeness. It was a strange reaction from a man in the duke's service, who must see more than his fair share of skraylings.

Cutsnail appeared not to notice anything amiss, but it was impossible to know if that was through genuine ignorance of humans or simply lack of visible reaction. The foreigners' faces were hard to read at the best of times, their expressions concealed or distorted as they were by the tattooed lines.

"Thank your master for showing me the new theatre," he told Coby. "Now I must be about my other business."

"Certainly, sir."

She showed him out of the back door, lingering a while to enjoy the sunshine. It was oddly quiet without the constant hammering and cursing of the workmen. For a moment she was taken back to Sunday afternoons with Master Catlyn, sneaking into the empty building to spar and talk. She closed her eyes, lost in blissful memory.

"Naismith! Is Naismith there?"

She blinked against the light as Master Eaton came running round the curve of the theatre wall.

"In the office," she said as he pushed past her. "Why, what is it?"

She ran after him, heart in her mouth. Judging by the look on the actor's face, something was very wrong.

"Rafe?" Naismith put down his ledger.

"It's – Hugh Catchpenny," Eaton panted. "He's dead."

Coby stared at Master Eaton, aghast.

"What?" Naismith looked almost as shocked as she felt.

"Killed in a brawl last night. Skull smashed in, so they're saying."

"Dear God in Heaven."

Dunfell stepped forward. "Who is this Catchpenny?"