The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(5)

"Of course."

"The pay is four shillings a day," Leland went on, "also board, lodgings and a suit of livery. You will report here on the twentieth day of August and learn your way around the Tower and the ambassador's quarters."

Four shillings a day. Twenty-four shillings a week. That was not a sum he could turn down easily, not the way things were going. But August was a long way off. Too long. He cursed under his breath in frustration.

"Well, what is it?" Leland asked.

Mal swallowed. It was a gamble, but if they really wanted him for this job… "I am, as you undoubtedly know, sir, out of work at the moment. How I shall shift for myself in the next few weeks, I know not, but I doubt I can find a position for so short a while…"

"You are asking for a retainer?"

Mal lowered his gaze. "Yes, sir."

"Very well," Leland said after a pause for consideration. "Half pay until you start – and of course no board or lodgings."

Two shillings a day – and now it was barely two weeks until Midsummer Day. Nowhere near enough to pay off what he owed.

Leland sighed. "Come on, man, out with it."

Mal could not meet the lieutenant's eye. He feared this was a step too far. "I have some small but pressing debts. I–"

"How much?"

"Three pounds, sir." Or thereabouts. He prayed the lieutenant would not ask what the money was for.

After a long moment Leland began to laugh. "Three pounds. Well, we cannot have His Excellency's bodyguard thrown in the Clink for so paltry a sum. Here." He took out a purse and counted out six gold angels.

"Thank you, sir," Mal said, pocketing the coins. "I am in your debt."

"You are in the Queen's debt, not mine. I'll instruct the purser to take it out of your pay."

"Of course, sir."

"Someone will be along presently to see you out, and return your blade. Until August, Master Catlyn."

The moment Leland left, Mal sank down onto a nearby bench, shaking with relief. He had been so certain he was condemned to die – and dammit, Monkton had let him stew here all night in that belief. Did the captain know more than he was letting on, or was he judging Mal by his elder brother's reputation? And then there were the skraylings. If Leland found out why the very sight of the foreigners chilled his heart, he would be back in that cell faster than a sixpence into a whore's bodice.

He wondered again why he had been chosen. It had not been Leland's decision, that was clear enough. So whose was it? With the Queen herself in seclusion, any orders most likely came from her advisors, the shadowy members of the Privy Council: Puckering, Cecil, Suffolk, Walsingham, Oxford, Pembroke and Effingham. Mal had the uncomfortable feeling he was being used as a pawn in a game where he could see neither board nor pieces, still less the players making their moves.

CHAPTER II

The cockerel's cry split the cool damp air, heralding the end of another all-too-brief night. Ned groaned and buried his head under the bolster. How much had they drunk last night? Next time he would stick to beer, regardless of who was paying. Speaking of which…

He slid out of bed, wincing at the bruises: a parting gift the other night from a pair of disgruntled Tower guards. Rummaging around in Mal's discarded clothes, he found a familiar pair of worn slops, and in the pocket a purse heavy with gold. He counted the coins out slowly to avoid clinking them together. Almost three pounds, less the few shillings Mal had spent on wine and oysters by way of an apology. Where did he get hold of so much money, and so quickly?

Ned's chest tightened. With that much money Mal could have spent the night with the best whore in Bankside, and yet here he was, back home with Ned. Was it only caution and a desire to be certain of repaying his debts, or had his feelings changed? Best not to dwell on it. Hope was a treacherous mistress.

Mal muttered something in his sleep. Ned eased back into bed and propped himself up on one elbow, the better to admire his companion's profile in the fragile dawn light. A half-grown-out military crop curled above a smooth tanned brow that led his gaze down to a chiselled nose as perfect as an Italian statue. Black lashes fluttered as Mal's eyes twitched beneath closed lids.

"No! Leave him alone!" Mal tossed his head from side to side, struggling as if pinned to the bed by invisible hands.

"Hush, my lamb," Ned whispered.

His reward was a soft moan and a furrowing of that dark brow. He leant over and kissed the sleeping man's shoulder, savouring the salt sting of sweat – and nearly got his lip split open a second time when Mal sat bolt upright with a cry of fear.

"What is it?" Ned asked softly.

Mal rubbed his face, then swung his legs out of bed and sat with his head in his hands, breathing ragged as if he had been running. Ned reached out a hand to comfort him, then thought better of it. After a moment Mal got to his feet, stretched as best he could under the low rafters, and scratched his groin.

"I can't do this," he muttered, picking up his shirt.

"That's not what you said last night." The words were out of Ned's mouth before he could stop them.

"What?" Mal popped his head through the neck of the shirt and frowned at him.

"Er, nothing." Ned wriggled sideways into the warm hollow Mal had just abandoned, and watched him dress. Play of muscles under milky skin, tantalising glimpses of tight arse as the hip-length shirt rose and fell with each movement… He sighed. What was the point of an early rising if you didn't get to use it?