The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(46)

Coby bit back a snide remark. Six weeks with the company, and he still could not remember the names of the men on stage.

"A hireling, a player of small parts only," Naismith replied distractedly. "Still, he must be replaced."

"Certainly he must," said Dunfell, "and with someone less quarrelsome, by Heaven. My lord Suffolk–"

"With all due respect, sir," Master Eaton said, advancing on him slowly, "this is too little a matter for the notice of a great man like Suffolk. Is it not?"

Dunfell retreated, his round visage as pale as the moon.

"Ah, um, yes. Yes, I suppose so."

"Well, there's nothing for it," Master Naismith said. "We shall have to hire a replacement."

CHAPTER XII

At eleven o'clock a yeoman warder announced that the ambassador's barge was ready. Baron Howard of Effingham, the Lord High Admiral, had offered to show the ambassador around the royal dockyards at Deptford. Effingham also happened to be the patron of one of the competing theatre companies. Mal wondered how many palms the admiral had greased in order to get this early introduction to the judge of the competition.

The two skrayling elders, Scarheart and Greatyard, had also been invited, and they sat with the ambassador under a canopy in the centre of the barge, shaded from the heat of the sun. Even at this early hour it was beginning to get uncomfortably hot. Mal soon began to wish some other colour than black had been chosen for his livery, or even that he could join the skraylings in the shade. Instead he stood behind the ambassador, hand on rapier hilt, though in situations like this his role was more ceremonial than practical. If anyone chose to take a shot at the ambassador from the riverbank or a passing boat, there was little Mal could do short of throwing himself in front of the arrow or bullet. And he was not about to throw away his life for a skrayling, no matter how important.

"Catlyn-tuur?"

"Sir?"

"Please, talk with us. Sekaarhjarret-tuur wish to know more about you."

Mal sat down on a cushion opposite the skraylings, arranging his rapier behind him. Perhaps this was an opportunity to find out why they had asked for him in the first place.

"What would you like to know, sir?" he asked warily.

"You are from place called Peak, north of here?" Kiiren asked.

"Peakland, in Derbyshire." His heart sank. So that was it. No sense in trying to conceal things, then. "Rushdale Hall," he added.

Kiiren conveyed the information to the elders, who nodded and smiled at Mal. He smiled back, confused. If the skraylings knew about him and Charles, why were they so pleased? Foreigners! They made no sense.

"May I ask when you are born?" Kiiren said.

Mal frowned. "In the ninth year of Queen Elizabeth's reign, the year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and sixty-seven."

"Twenty-six years ago."

"Yes."

Kiiren leant forward. "What count of days? What time?"

"The first day of November," Mal replied. "I know not the hour. Why, do you desire to cast my horoscope, sir?"

"I do not know this word. What is… horror scope?"

Mal spent the rest of the journey to Deptford explaining what he knew of astrology; anything to keep the skraylings from enquiring further about his own history. Fortunately they seemed well acquainted with the movement of the stars, though they called the constellations by different names. Kiiren seemed keen on teaching him the names of everything, and he did his best to oblige, though the skrayling tongue was harder to pronounce than any language he had come across in his studies. He was relieved when the massed white sails of the shipyard came into view, and he could rest his dry throat a while.

Ned woke late to find Gabriel gone and a note on the pillow. Gone home to fetch clean linens, it said. Meet me at the Bull for dinner? Dammit, how was he to break the bad news to Gabriel there? Still, he had to get it over with. He whiled away the rest of the morning practising his card shuffling and dealing, then slipped the pack in his pocket and headed out.

The Bull's Head was abuzz with gossip, something about a fight outside the Castle on the Hoop. He found Gabriel with the rest of Suffolk's Men at their usual table in a nook near the fireplace, and slid onto the settle next to him. Gabriel reached for his hand and squeezed it. His face was drawn and pale, and his free hand gripped his tankard like a vice.

"Something wrong?" Ned murmured.

"One of our hirelings is dead," Gabriel replied. "Killed in a fight."

"Anyone I know?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Hugh Catchpenny."

"Thin, pockmarked fellow? Works for whatshisface, next door to the Lewes Inn?"

"That's the one."

"Huh." Ned beckoned to a passing pot-boy. "Another ale, if you will." He glanced at Gabriel. "No, make that two."

Naismith was going over the parts with Eaton and Hendricks, trying to work out if they could double up and manage without the lost actor.

"I don't see how it can be done, sir," Hendricks said at last. "The costume changes for some of the smaller roles are tight enough as it is. There will be mistakes made if we try for more."

"We could give Catchpenny's part to Fletcher," Rafe added, "and hire someone to take his place. There would be few lines and cues to learn, it's mostly walk-on parts."