The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(64)

He continued to scan the crowd for signs of trouble, though what he expected to see, he was not certain. The skraylings' facial tattoos exaggerated some expressions and concealed others, making their intent difficult to read. Perhaps that was why he felt more at ease with the ambassador than he had expected. Perhaps old wounds were healing at last.

Lost in these thoughts, he suddenly realised Kiiren was addressing him.

"Catlyn-tuur, our esteemed Master of Lines wants know if you like have tattoo."

"Ah, well, I don't know…" Mal glanced around. All the skraylings were staring at him, their patterned faces intent.

"It is token of belonging, done to all men of our people," Kiiren added. "Is… traditional."

"In that case, I can hardly refuse." He hesitated. "I don't have to have it on my face, do I, sir?"

Kiiren shook his head and smiled. "That is clan-marking, not for your people."

The "Master of Lines" turned out to be a stocky skrayling with ink-stained fingers and hair more silver than black. Tattoos spread across his cheeks like ripples on water. He looked Mal up and down, his amber eyes expressionless, then took down a booklet which was hanging from the roof-pole and handed it to Mal.

"Do you choose," he growled, and sat down on a stool. He took up a pestle and mortar and began grinding some pigment.

The booklet was a single long strip of paper, folded this way and that like a bellows, and on it were painted dozens of designs for tattoos. None of them were much like the ones on the faces of the skrayling guards: these were simpler, mostly roundels containing stylised animal heads, leaves or flowers. He wondered if they were genuine skrayling designs or just made up to suit English tastes.

Kiiren peered around his shoulder, and shook his head. He said something in Vinlandic to the tattooist, who handed over a sheet of paper and a charcoal pencil. The young skrayling sketched a design: a knot of thorns surrounded by five-petalled flowers.

"You like this?" He looked expectantly at Mal.

"Well, yes, sir." He could not say no, not without offending the most important skrayling in England. "Very well, have him do it now before I change my mind."

"Where you like he?" the tattooist asked.

"Here.' Mal patted his left arm, just below the shoulder. No sense in damaging his sword-arm.

"Do you neked," the skrayling instructed, and gestured to a low stool just inside the tent.

Mal hesitated. He was starting to get the hang of Tradetalk, even without more lessons from young Hendricks, but this wasn't the time for a misunderstanding. He turned to Kiiren. "Did he really say what I thought he said?"

"He ask you bare your arm," Kiiren said. "What did you think he say?"

"It doesn't matter, sir," Mal muttered. The young skrayling might feign innocence, but there was a twinkle in his eye that said he understood more than he liked to let on.

Mal took off his doublet and shirt and sat patiently whilst the tattooist copied Kiiren's design onto his bicep with a brush and ink. Then the old skrayling took up another bowl of pigment, and a needle. He grasped Mal's elbow with a rough grey-nailed hand.

"Tell me about the design, if you would, sir," Mal said to Kiiren, partly because he was curious but mostly because he wanted a distraction from the fact that he was now at the mercy of a skrayling armed with a sharp instrument.

"It is ancient Vinlandic symbol, tree of our homeland. There is English tree, much like it, with thorns and small berries."

Mal thought for a moment. Blackthorn was too bushy to be considered a tree. "Hawthorn? The leaves are shaped like a hand, and the berries are –" he was about to say "red", but remembered what Hendricks had told him "– about so big." He measured the small size of the haws with thumb and forefinger.

"Yes. Hawthorn."

"May I ask why you chose it?" He winced as the needle punctured his skin.

Kiiren looked down at him, his expression inscrutable. "It is for remembering."

Mal looked away. The last thing he wanted to do was remember. For a brief moment he was tempted to pull away and refuse the tattoo, but the old skrayling had hold of him too tightly and besides, Leland would probably have Mal dismissed if he offended the ambassador. He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. It occurred to him that he was not exactly in a position to do his job right now, and he wondered what he would do if another assassin struck. It seemed unlikely, here in the heart of their own community, but stranger things had happened. Was not Caesar murdered by his best friend, on the steps of the Roman Senate?

Preoccupied by these thoughts and by planning possible strategies, he hardly noticed the rest of the tattooing process. The next thing he was aware of, it was all over and the Master of Lines was bandaging his arm with a piece of snowy linen. Through Kiiren the old skrayling instructed him to keep it covered until morning and to keep it clean, though his expression suggested he had a low opinion of English cleanliness. He also gave Mal a pot of evil-smelling grey salve, to be used twice a day. Mal put his clothes back on, wincing as his sleeve rubbed against the bandage. "How much do I owe him?"

"For you, is gift," Kiiren replied.

"Thank you," Mal said, wondering if this put him in the skraylings' debt, and if so, what would be expected of him in return. Unlike the earring, he could not give this gift back.