The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(67)

One of the guards pointed at Mal's feet. "No shoe," he said.

When Mal had removed his boots, the guard held up the tent flap and gestured for them to go inside. Mal made the sign of the cross and whispered a prayer, then ducked through the entrance in his stockinged feet.

The tent was lit with the same lightwater lamps that the skraylings had used at the Tower. Panels of azure-blue silk hung from the sides of the tent, catching the lamplight on their glossy weave. Each panel had a different design on it, though what they were intended to represent, Mal could not make out. On one side of the tent stood a low table and some kind of enclosed brazier which gave out a welcome heat.

The tent smelt strongly of tobacco smoke, mingled with the dry musk of skrayling and another scent Mal could not place. He was uncomfortably aware of the fact he was dripping rainwater onto the expensive Turkish rugs that covered the floor. Kiiren began stripping off his wet clothes and was soon down to singlet and breeches.

"Please to take off your shirt and sit."

Mal peeled off the wet, blood-stained garment he had hastily donned before their departure from the Tower, wincing as the fabric parted company with the weals on his back.

"I am sorry you could not be tended more soon," Kiiren said, taking a bundle of linens from a skrayling who had appeared at the tent flap.

"It's nothing," Mal muttered. He was just glad to be out of that place.

The light shifted as Kiiren knelt down behind him and raised a lamp to examine his wounds. The skrayling's hissing intake of breath sent waves of shame through him. Mal had witnessed plenty of men flogged during his time in the army, but he guessed Kiiren had never seen anything like it before. He longed to make some jest, break the tension, but the words stuck in his throat.

Something ice cold touched Mal's back and it was all he could do not to cry out.

"What is that?" he gasped. A sharp woody scent began to fill the tent.

"Ashaarr."

Mal wondered if that was the name of the stuff in the bottle, or if Kiiren were trying to hush him. He braced himself as he heard the slosh of liquid again. But where the stuff had first touched his shoulder the pain was already fading, to be replaced by a pleasant warmth. He breathed shallowly, trying not to flinch away every time Kiiren dabbed the searing fluid on another cut. Eventually all his wounds were salved, and Kiiren corked the bottle and put it aside.

"We must cover these," Kiiren said. "You English are so dirty."

He began winding a smooth bandage around Mal's torso.

"Are you angry with me, sir?" Mal asked, trying to take his mind off Kiiren's closeness. The skrayling's breath was hot on his raw back.

Kiiren sighed. "Not with you. With – Leland, and Ingilandeth. Unkindness to one of our clan is unkindness to all."

"But–" Mal twisted round. "I am not of your clan."

"You are one of us." Kiiren reached out and traced the line of Mal's cheek, his eyes never leaving Mal's own. "You are touched by Erishen, I can feel it."

Mal willed himself not to pull away. "Is this… Erishen your god?"

"He is light of my soul," Kiiren whispered.

Mal swallowed.

"Whatever you think, sir," he said, as politely as he could, "you are wrong."

Kiiren lowered his hand. "I fear so." He picked up a heap of folded cream wool and held it out towards Mal. "Please to put this on."

Mal took the robe gratefully and, turning his back on the skrayling, stripped off his wet hose and stockings. The garment was very like the one the ambassador wore in the evenings, after he changed out of his ceremonial robes. Mal felt a little self-conscious wearing it, but at least it was dry and warm.

The tent flap opened again. One of the skrayling guards who had accompanied them back from the Tower crouched there, his eyes lowered in respect. He spoke briefly to Kiiren, who beckoned to Mal.

"Come, it is time."

He handed Mal a pair of sheepskin moccasins, then ducked through the tent flap.

"Time for what?" Mal asked, hopping after him with one moccasin on.

Four of the guards waited outside, this time with a canopy to hold off the rain, and Mal and Kiiren were escorted to the central pavilion. Inside, it was packed with skrayling men of all ages, from youths of perhaps fourteen or so to silver-haired elders. The central area was empty; around its periphery, tall wooden standards stood at intervals, hung with three or four of the coloured lamps, whose light turned the skraylings' tattooed features into tiger masks of black and silver.

"Wait here, Catlyn-tuur," Kiiren said as they reached the inner edge of the ring of skraylings.

"What's going on?" Mal asked.

"Elders of clans wish to know what happen today, and why we are here," Kiiren whispered.

The young ambassador walked into the centre of the open space, and the crowd fell silent. He began his account of events, pointing northwards at intervals. Mal caught the occasional name here and there, mainly "Leland". Judge Scarheart, Chief Merchant Greatyard and the other elders seated in the front row of the crowd asked many questions. Kiiren's account went on for a lot longer than seemed necessary to describe such a simple incident.

At first Mal could not make head nor tail of what was going on, then he realised it was not so different from the debates at university. If one ignored the words and watched the expressions and gestures, it was possible to make out the general intent, if not the detail.