The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(48)

"With your permission, my lord–" Mal put in.

The admiral grunted, then motioned for him to proceed. Mal edged up the gangplank; the galleon was rolling in the water even though it was well anchored, and the plank pitched and wobbled alarmingly. At last he reached the comparative safety of the ship and scanned the decks and rigging. A couple of the sailors stared at him, an interloper on their territory, but none of them looked ready to murder an ambassador in cold blood. He waved down to Kiiren, and the skraylings followed him up the gangplank.

They were shown all over the vessel, from poop deck to beakhead. When Effingham enquired if they wished to go below decks to examine the guns, the ambassador shook his head, but gestured to the elders to proceed. The admiral and the two skraylings disappeared through the hatch. After a few moments Effingham's voice rumbled from below as he went from gun to gun, giving the range and poundage of each, as proud as a man showing off his sons.

"Very wise, Your Excellency," Mal said to the ambassador, lowering his voice to avoid being heard by the sailors all around them. "The stench of the bilges is enough to put any man off his dinner. And the admiral keeps a fine table, I am–"

"Be gone, ye foul demon!"

Mal pushed the ambassador aside as a sailor swung past on the end of a rope, axe blade whistling through the space where they had stood. The man hung for a moment in the air over the river, and Mal drew his rapier. The sailor's eyes widened in horror as his momentum brought him swinging back over the ship, straight towards the blade. Mal leant into the stroke, a shudder running up his arm as the rapier punched through the man's belly.

The sailor let go of his rope and sagged to a halt, staring up at Mal with bloodshot eyes. Mal pulled the blade free and stepped back, edging round between the ambassador and his attacker. The man lurched forward, clutching his blood-soaked shirt, and Mal managed a slash to his legs before he got in too close for rapier work. Mal drew his dagger with his left hand and, as the sailor raised his axe, plunged it into the soft flesh of his opponent's armpit. Blood spewed from the severed artery and the man dropped his weapon with a cry, collapsing to his knees at Mal's feet.

"What in Heaven's name is going on?" Effingham barked, emerging from the hold.

"An assassin," Mal replied, holding the rapier point at the wounded man's throat.

"Captain!" The admiral looked around. "Who is this man?"

The captain, drawn sword in hand, crossed the deck. Mal suddenly realised no one had moved to help him, not even the captain. Had it happened so fast, or were they all in this together? In the sudden silence he was conscious of the warm, sticky blood coating his dagger hand and dripping onto the deck.

"Edwards?" The captain seized the sailor by his hair and wrenched his head back.

Edwards' eyes rolled up into their sockets, and he sagged, a dead weight in his captain's grasp. The captain grunted and let him go, and the dying sailor slumped to the deck.

Mal turned to Kiiren. A spatter of red dots marred the ambassador's robe at knee height.

"Are you hurt, Your Excellency?"

Kiiren shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes off his assailant.

"He almost kill me," he said in a low voice.

The skrayling elders hurried forwards, muttering in their own tongue as they stepped around the spreading pool of blood on the deck. The ambassador seemed to be assuring them he was unhurt, but the elders closed in around him as if to protect him from further attack. Mal wished that he had asked the ambassador to bring his escort aboard the ship. In future he would be more cautious.

He wiped both blades on the sleeve of his doublet – it was soaked in blood already, a little more would make no difference – and sheathed them.

"I think His Excellency has seen enough," he told the admiral.

"Indeed," Effingham replied. He turned to the captain. "See to this mess, Fosdyke. I want every man aboard questioned. Someone will hang for this."

"Aye-aye, sir."

The captain snapped a salute, his expression that of a man determined to find a scapegoat lest his own neck feel the hempen collar.

Mal wiped his hand absentmindedly on his hose. Only the first day of the visit, and already he had drawn steel in the ambassador's defence, aye, and bloodied it too. How many more zealots and desperadoes would try their luck? And how long before he failed to stop them? With a last glance round at the crew of the Ark Royal he escorted the skraylings down the gangplank to the blessed safety of the dockside.

There was only one problem with Faulkner's plan, Coby realised.

Where was Master Parrish going to sleep? Philip and Oliver shared a bed in the room opposite Master Naismith's, and Coby and the maidservant Betsy had the two servants' rooms on the top floor. Master Parrish would have to have a pallet on the floor in the boys' room. Either that or Coby would surrender her own bed and sleep in the costume store.

Faulkner got to his feet.

"So, mayhap I'll see you later, Gabe," he said with forced casualness. "Got a lot of work to do, though."

Parrish made an affirmative noise, still with half an ear on the debate over hirelings. Faulkner gave her a wink over Parrish's shoulder and left.

"Master Parrish," Coby said. "Sir?"

"Hmm?"

"I need your help. It's about Pip."