The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(6)

"Going somewhere?" he asked as Mal pulled on his boots.

"Just down to the garden. I need to think." He took his rapier down from its peg.

Ah, that kind of thinking. "Can I watch?"

"If you will."

Mal threaded the rapier's scabbard onto his belt. The matching dagger joined it, then he cinched the belt around his hips. Ned ducked as Mal turned to leave. The long, slender blade was meant for the lofty halls and galleries of noblemen's mansions, not cramped attics in the backstreets of Southwark.

After Mal had gone, Ned lifted the bed-sheet and peered into its musky depths.

"Never mind, mate. Maybe next time."

Was that a nod or a shake? With a grunt of effort he climbed out of bed.

"First sign of madness," he muttered to himself. "Talking to your… self."

He cast about the room for his own discarded clothing, and remembered the purse. Whatever Mal was up to, he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Mal drew his rapier and held it up to the light. The rising sun gilded the elegant curves of the hilt and shimmered along the blade. Forty inches of finest Solingen steel, exquisite and deadly.

Mandritta, reversa, fendente, tonda… His fencing master's voice echoed in his memory as he adopted the terza guardia stance, blade dipping towards the grass.

He moved through the familiar drills, emptying his mind, becoming the blade. Stepping back and forth along the garden path, the tip of his rapier wove a pattern of glittering arcs above the rows of dew-spangled cabbages, sending butterflies spiralling up like scraps of torn paper.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Ned cried out as the rapier snicked the head off a flowering onion.

"Sorry," Mal muttered.

He wiped the blade on his cuff and sheathed it. Ned looked at him expectantly.

"Yesterday," Mal said, "I was offered – no, given – a job."

"But… that's marvellous news!" Ned leapt off the upturned barrel he'd been sitting on. "It is marvellous, isn't it?"

When Mal did not answer, Ned went on: "Are you… Are you leaving London?"

"No." Mal looked north and east, towards the dark smudge of the city on the opposite bank of the Thames. "No, you'll have to put up with me for a while yet."

"Then what's the matter?"

Mal picked up a stone and threw it at a pigeon that was eyeing the cabbages with interest.

"The job is to guard the skrayling ambassador."

"Oh. I didn't know they had an ambassador."

"Neither did I, until now."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"What I should have done a long time ago." He walked back towards the house. "Put on your Sunday best. We're going to Court."

A young Englishman of noble birth could generally be found in one of two places: on campaign in Ireland, or at Court. Fortunately for Mal, Blaise Grey had managed to avoid the former, so he and Ned made their way to Whitehall Palace, on the Thames west of London.

Two enormous gatehouses straddled King Street, guarding the east and west entrances to the palace and its gardens. A constant stream of people flowed in and out under the watchful eyes of the royal guard.

"If anyone asks," Mal told Ned as they neared the gate," you're my manservant. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes down, even if you recognise someone; this isn't the Bull's Head on a Saturday night."

Whitehall swarmed with courtiers, servants and petitioners, though this hive no longer centred on a queen. Prince Robert took care of much of the kingdom's business, sitting at the head of his mother's Privy Council as de facto regent. On the riverward side of King Street lay the prince's lodging and private gardens. Even if Blaise were there, Mal knew he stood little chance of gaining admittance. In any case, his quarry was far more likely to be found on the other side of the street, in the maze of tennis courts and bowling alleys where the young bloods idled away their hours.

After making several enquiries of servants and getting lost twice, they found Grey in the larger of the palace's two tennis courts. The game was still in progress, so Mal and Ned joined the press of spectators in the mesh-covered galleries running down one side of the court. There was little to be seen without pushing through the throng, though judging by the cries of triumph and anguish from the crowd, the game was reaching its climax.

Mal glimpsed Blaise's dark blond curls for an instant over the heads of the spectators, then the whole court erupted in deafening cheers that echoed off the white stone walls. Money changed hands, and the crowd began to disperse.

Signalling for Ned to hang back, Mal moved forwards, letting the departing courtiers flow past him. Amongst the stragglers was a slight red-headed figure, face flushed, his fine linen shirt soaked in sweat. Prince Arthur, the younger of the Queen's two sons. As the prince passed, laughing at a jest from one of his companions, Mal swept a low bow.

"Catlyn, isn't it?"

Mal looked up to see Grey staring at him. "My lord."

"Come for a game?" Grey asked, wiping his brow with a towel.

"I – Yes, why not?"

He removed his sword belt and doublet and tossed them to Ned, who frowned at being treated in such a peremptory manner.

"Manservant, remember?" Mal hissed.