The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(52)

"The attempted assassination, or my killing the assassin?"

"Either."

Leland picked up the spoon again and waved him away, spattering the paperwork with porridge. Mal bowed and left, wondering if he had just been praised or reprimanded.

The morning was fine and cool, with a flawless blue sky promising a scorching hot day to come. Even the turbid waters of the Thames were bright with sunlight. As Coby walked across London Bridge the city came to life: bleary-eyed shopkeepers unbolted their shutters and began setting out their wares, and the great gates at the southern end of the bridge swung open, letting in the first street-vendors with their baskets of eggs and pails of milk.

When she arrived at the field where the theatre stood, she was surprised to find the gate open. Fresh hoof-prints marked the damp earth at the entrance to the field, and by the gatepost were the imprints of booted feet – going in through the gate, but not leaving. She froze, scanning the field beyond.

There was no one to be seen, but on the other hand there were places enough for concealment. The wooded gardens nearby were thick with new growth at this time of year and of course there was the bulk of the theatre building itself, casting a long shadow on the dewy grass. A flicker of movement caught her eye. Something white, pinned to the front door of the theatre and fluttering in the early morning breeze. Paper?

She looked at the ground again. The boot marks went one way only, but the hoof prints faced in both directions, and the outgoing ones lay uppermost. Someone had dismounted to unlatch the gate, but had ridden out again without closing it. Why be in such a hurry, unless one was up to mischief? Heart in mouth, she ran up to the theatre doors.

A sheet of paper had been nailed to the door by its top edge; it was slightly askew and one nail was bent, as if the job were hastily done. On it, written in a neat hand, were four verses of doggerel, signed "Jonah". Coby's breakfast turned to lead in her stomach. Just such a pseudonymous notice had been posted on the Guildhall door only a few months ago, intended to stir up violence against skraylings, Jews and other aliens in the city. The aldermen of London had offered a reward of one hundred crowns for information on the perpetrator, whilst the Privy Council had issued a blanket arrest warrant for all possible suspects, their lodgings to be searched for evidence and their persons to be tortured if they would not talk.

Thankful she had discovered the libel before it could be made public, she tore it down and took it in both hands, ready to rip it into pieces. No, Master Naismith needed to see this. If the theatre company had enemies, he ought to know about it, lest the villains try again.

Around mid-morning a servant arrived from Trinity House with Mal's livery, which had been rinsed of blood and dried. Mal gave the servant his borrowed garments and sixpence for his trouble then returned to the bedchamber to get changed. Unfortunately the delicate silk and silver embroidery on the breast was ruined by the scrubbing. A clicking noise caused him to turn. Kiiren stood in the doorway, looking him up and down and frowning.

"You need new clothes," the skrayling said.

"Probably, Your Excellency, but…"

"But?"

Mal hesitated. Perhaps it was better to be honest. "This livery must have cost a great deal. Even if Sir James docks my entire pay for this commission, it might not be enough."

"I will give Sir Leland money," Kiiren replied. "It is small price for saving of my life."

"Thank you, sir, that is most generous."

Mal put aside the livery and donned his own clothes once more. His best doublet and hose were of plain English wool, nothing like as fine as the royal livery, but good enough for a dinner at the Guildhall followed by trade negotiations, which was all the "entertainment" planned for today. After yesterday's excitement, it would be a relief to guard the ambassador in surroundings that did not bristle with deadly weapons. Still, he would have to remain watchful and alert. There must be a few merchants whose trade had not benefited from the alliance with the skraylings.

Though he was getting used to the skraylings' presence, he longed for the company of his own kind. He wondered if it was against ambassadorial protocol for him to invite Ned over one evening, or perhaps young Hendricks. No, not the boy. The ambassador had made it plain he could not discuss the contest, so asking one of Suffolk's Men to sup with them would not be wise. And even Ned had theatre connections, through Parrish and Henslowe. Dammit, the sooner Sunday came around the better. He would go and see Sandy after church, and perhaps have a drink with Ned before returning to the Tower. Leland had assured him he would be allowed time off duty on the Lord's Day; though the skraylings might not care to hear the word of God, they respected Christian custom at least that far.

He returned to the dining room, where the ambassador was greeting yet another well-wisher, a foreigner by his clothing.

"I am Monsieur D'Arrignan, aide to His Excellency the Ambassador of France," the man said in heavily accented English. "The ambassador regrets he cannot visit you himself, but he has been much distracted by bad news from Paris. A Catholic assassin tried to kill His Most Christian Majesty since only a few days."

"I do not understand," Kiiren said. "Is not your king of same faith as his people?"

"Since one month only, and not all believe he is sincere."

The ambassador shook his head. "It is very sad thing, that some men are so blind from own hatred they cannot see good in others."