The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(72)

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the hiss of steam and the distant strains of Vinlandic music.

"Last night…" Mal began cautiously. "Last night you said it was unwise to take my earring out, but that I would come to understand."

"It was not safe for you to join us." Kiiren lowered his voice. "The others may have set spies amongst the clan. And even if they have not, the elders must not know about you. Not yet. As soon as you came amongst us, I hurried to conceal you. I am sorry if I hurt you, but it was needful to be swift."

Mal felt none the wiser after this "explanation", but he let it pass. Kiiren had just admitted there were factions amongst the skraylings and that they spied on one another, just like the nations of Christendom. That fact alone was a useful titbit to take back to Walsingham. The strange vision of the mists, on the other hand, was not something to reveal to the spymaster, at least not yet. The skraylings had powerful magics, that was clear, but he needed to know more.

Recalling the vision brought another memory to mind: his conversation with Kiiren before the meeting. Light of my soul, the ambassador had said. Perhaps it meant something different to skraylings.

"This is something to do with Erishen," Mal whispered.

Kiiren produced a wooden box from which he took two small cups carved from lapis lazuli. Mal stared at them. The skraylings valued the deep blue stone more highly than gold, and these cups comprised enough to buy a fleet's worth of skrayling cargo. Kiiren whisked the contents of the pot again, then poured the foamy brown liquid into the cups.

He passed one to Mal. "What believe your people is happen to them after they die?"

Mal hesitated, wondering what to make of this sudden change of topic. He took a sip of his drink.

"What is this?" he asked, trying not to pull a face.

"We call it shakholaat," Kiiren replied. "It is good for weariness, of body and spirit."

Mal took a longer drink. The hot, bitter liquid was definitely an acquired taste. His mouth began to tingle slightly. The stuff must be spiced with the hot pepper the skraylings loved so much.

"Their souls pass on," he said, returning to the question Kiiren had posed, "to whatever destination God deems fit: Heaven, Purgatory, or Hell."

"I hear much talk of Heaven and Hell," Kiiren said, "but what is this… Purgatory?"

"It is a place – some say a great mountain on the other side of the world – where the souls of those who did not turn away from God in life, but who are yet too sinful to enter straight into Heaven, are purged of their sins so they might be fit to enter therein."

Kiiren smiled and nodded politely, but said nothing.

"You do not have similar beliefs?" Mal asked.

"Beliefs, no. There are things we know as fact." He put his cup down, and leant towards Mal, hands clasped in his lap. "We have no stories of afterlife, as you call it, no Heaven or Hell, no Purgatory. When man dies, his spirit is gone. Like candle flame." He made a gesture, touching his fingertips together with his hand pointing upwards, then spreading them suddenly, like a flame dispersing into smoke. "But there are those amongst us whose spirits are strong, and they can be born again and again. If they find mortal shell."

"Pythagoras believed as much, though Christians call it heresy," Mal said, trying to frame his argument in terms that would not offend. "My people are… not tolerant of other faiths."

"And yet there is disagreeing between Christians, is there not? Some follow Great Father in city beyond Inner Sea, and some defy him."

Mal guessed he was referring to the Pope.

"That is true. For fifteen hundred years we were one Christendom; but in the last few generations, everything has changed."

"This does not please you."

Mal couldn't help but glance around the tent, fearful they were somehow being overheard – and not by skraylings. Foolishness. If there was anywhere in London they could speak freely about religious matters without some informant overhearing, it was here.

"My mother was of the Old Faith," he said. "She taught us – she taught me to follow the old ways, but it had to be in secret. The Pope – the Great Father of whom you spoke – declared Queen Elizabeth a heretic and urged his followers to kill her. As a loyal Englishman I cannot of course condone this, but anyone of the Old Faith is suspect. I have no choice but to obey the edicts of the Established Church."

"And if Church say we are demons?"

Mal drew a deep breath. "If I may be honest with you, sir, a month ago I would have said they were right."

"And now?"

"Now I am not so sure. You do not seem like demons to me. Of course the theologians would say this is merely a clever deceit of yours, that in hiding your true nature you prove your demoniacal power… but in truth I could never follow such subtle logic. I have not the wits for it."

Kiiren smiled. "I am glad you not think us demons. We are friends, yes?"

Mal nodded cautiously. He could not help but like the young skrayling, even if half the time Kiiren's conversation made no sense. Perhaps in time he could tease out more of the skraylings' secrets, but only if he retained the trust of his one ally amongst them.

He raised his cup in salute.

"Friends, yes."

As soon as the city gates were open, Coby ran back to Thames Street and told Master Naismith about the intruder. Then she went to St Augustine's church as was her custom, and afterwards ate dinner with the Kuypers, one of the Dutch families of her acquaintance. As Master Kuyper was wont to remind her, the Lord's Day was for contemplation, not worldly matters. It was a relief to forget about the theatre for a while and enjoy the simple company of friends.