The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(49)

"Oh?"

"He's…" Perhaps the truth would be best, even if it cost her dear. "He's running wild, sir. Master Naismith has been so busy with the new theatre and the contest, he hasn't been keeping an eye on the apprentices like he should. I think… I think Philip is taking costly gifts from admirers and spending the money on… on…"

"On what?"

"Gambling, sir. And whores."

Parrish frowned, suddenly attentive. "How long has this been going on?"

"I don't know, sir. Since we came back to London, at least."

"Why did you not say anything sooner?"

"I wanted to, sir, but I was scared. I know I shouldn't be, he's more than a year younger than me, but he's always been jealous that I get to come to the tavern with you and the other adults whilst he has to stay at home with Oliver, and–"

"Very well, I'll speak to Master Naismith–"

"No!" She caught his sleeve. "If you do that, he'll know it was me."

"What would you like me to do?"

She swallowed, caught his cool blue gaze with her own.

"Come and stay at Master Naismith's for a few days. Tell him you're worried about this attack preying on the boys' thoughts, giving them nightmares, and want to keep them company for a while."

Parrish smiled. "You have this all thought out, haven't you?"

"It has been on my mind for a while, yes."

She looked away, praying he would agree. Faulkner was right. If anything happened to Parrish or, worse still, Philip, their chances of winning the contest would be scuppered.

"All right," he said at last. "Ned will not be happy about this, but I dare say he'll live."

He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a brotherly hug. For once she did not shy away. She was beginning to realise she had misjudged this man. He had never been interested in her, not in that way.

"Thank you, sir," she whispered.

The temptation to pour out her heart to someone had never been greater. No, she must not succumb. The company was already under threat, without adding new kindling to the flames.

At Trinity House Mal was shown into a side-chamber and clean clothes were brought to replace his ruined livery. Mal changed hurriedly, reluctant to let the ambassador out of his sight for a moment. He emerged into the dining hall a few minutes later to find the admiral and his guests sitting at table, along with a number of naval officers. The hapless Captain Fosdyke was not amongst them.

"… most regrettable," Effingham was saying. "Can't question a dead man, though."

"The ambassador's assailant is dead?" Mal asked, taking a seat at the far end of the table, where he could see the skraylings clearly. He noticed the elders had placed themselves either side of Kiiren, and wondered how many English noblemen would defend their ambassador so readily.

"Bled to death," Effingham replied, picking up a gobbet of meat and gesturing with it. "You know how to wield that fancy sword, sir, I'll give you that."

Mal inclined his head at the backhanded compliment.

"Do you think the fellow was a Spanish spy, sir?" a young officer asked the admiral, his eyes gleaming with patriotic fervour.

"Unless Fosdyke finds a purse of doubloons in his hammock, how will we know?" The speaker was an older man, weatherbeaten like the admiral but less richly attired.

"Not all men betray their country for pay," the young officer replied. "Damned Papists will do anything to harm the Queen's cause."

"Enough of such talk, gentlemen," Effingham said, gesturing to the skraylings. "Don't want to bore our guests with our petty squabbles, eh?"

Conversation turned to more friendly matters for a while: the ambassador's voyage from the New World, expeditions of trade and exploration on both sides. What it must be like, Mal thought as he sipped his wine, to sail for weeks without sight of land, and no certainty of reaching the other side? Like marching into battle, he supposed, only against a foe more implacable than any army, and with no means of retreat.

"I wish more of my men would learn to swim," the young officer said, echoing Mal's thoughts, "but they prefer to put their trust in God."

Kiiren translated this for his companions.

"We have seen this in your people," the ambassador said, "but never understood."

"Damned foolish nonsense, if you ask me," Effingham muttered. "Here, have a slice of quince tart."

"Thank you, no. We are much sated."

"Ate too much of the roast goose, eh?" The admiral beckoned to the servants, who cleared the dishes away. "Now, about this play–"

Kiiren held up a hand. "I am sorry, Effingham-tuur, but I cannot talk about contest."

"I was just going to ask–"

Kiiren stood up. "Please, you must excuse me."

He bowed low, and walked out of the room. After a moment's hesitation the skrayling elders did likewise.

"Damned foreigners!" Effingham slammed his glass down on the table, slopping wine over the tablecloth. "I was only going to ask how many of these contests that young fellow has judged. None at all, I'll warrant. I've seen cabin boys with more hair on their upper lips."