The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(76)

"Like the theatre contest in London?"

"Yes, except…" Kiiren glanced at him sidelong. "In my lands, purpose of contest is for choosing of mates."

Mal was prevented from further enquiry into skrayling customs by their arrival at the gatehouse of the palace. The royal escort led them through a large outer courtyard to an inner one, less spacious but far grander. Rows of dazzling white stucco panels adorned all four sides of the quadrangle, depicting heroes of classical myth and English legend: Hercules, Perseus, Brutus and of course King Arthur, the prince's namesake.

"You must tell me some of their stories," Kiiren said eagerly, gazing around in wonder.

"Perhaps after the contest, sir," Mal said. "I would not want to spoil any surprises the players might have in store for Your Excellency."

The skraylings dismounted, and the ambassador and his bodyguard were escorted alone through the echoing corridors of the palace, across expanses of black-and-white marble floor and up a noble stair into one of the octagonal towers. Mal felt very small and wretched amongst all this magnificence, which was no doubt its purpose. He wondered for the thousandth time how much the Queen had heard about Saturday's incident, and what she made of it. He only prayed he might come out of this with his head and other limbs intact.

They were shown into an antechamber, and after a short wait the ambassador was announced. Tall doors decorated with bronze bas-reliefs swung open and Mal followed Kiiren into the chamber beyond.

If he had not already been perspiring from a long ride in the sun and the anxiety of meeting his monarch, Mal would have broken out into a sweat the moment he stepped through the doors. Though the palace's many windows caught and held the midday heat, fires blazed in both great hearths of the audience chamber. A thick layer of rushes covered the marble floor, sprinkled with drifts of yellow bedstraw flowers. No courtiers thronged here to wait upon their monarch, only a handful of servants, silent and watchful.

On a dais at the far end of the audience chamber stood twin thrones, The left was empty save for a narrow coronet ringed with ruby crosses and clusters of pearls; on the right sat Elizabeth. The sixty year-old Queen was her own death mask, a thick layer of white ceruse rendering her features immobile. She wore a gown of plain black damask with cuffs of tarnished silver thread and a cartwheel ruff that framed her face in what had perhaps once been a flattering manner. A wig of tight redgold curls made an incongruous splash of colour above her sombre attire; a double rope of enormous pearls was her only adornment.

Mal walked towards the dais behind the ambassador, gaze lowered. His booted feet bruised the tiny yellow petals, releasing their honeyed perfume. As Kiiren bowed in a courtly manner, Mal sank to one knee and remained there, eyes on the floor. A mouse stared at him from the shadow of the dais, jet-bead eyes glinting in the firelight, then it scuttled away.

"Ambassador." The Queen's voice was still sharp, accustomed to absolute obedience; only a faint quaver betrayed her age.

"Majesty."

"How did you like the fair?"

So much for the pleasantries. Mal wondered how quickly news had reached her. Probably the same night, which meant the Queen had been waiting a day and a half to hear this story at first hand.

"It was most entertaining, Your Majesty," Kiiren replied. "Seeing our people together, as one – it remind me of home."

"Ah, your home. We have heard much from our advisers about the wide lands of the New World, its richness, and our great good fortune in attracting your friendship. And now we are honoured by an ambassador. Tell me, Your Excellency, which prince do you represent?"

"Prince, Majesty?"

"There is some leader amongst your people, a chief or potentate or king?"

She gestured regally, taking in the portraits of her ancestors lining the walls.

"There are many leaders, Majesty," Kiiren said, "and many peoples. I speak only for Shajiilrekhurrnashet, as most numerous of all clans of Vinland to visit your shores."

"The other clans and nations do not wish to send their own ambassadors?"

"Perhaps in time they shall. I do not know their minds."

The Queen laughed sharply. "Would that I had so little care for the plans of my enemies."

"The other clans are not our enemies, Your Majesty," Kiiren replied.

"Then you are indeed fortunate, Your Excellency." She peered more closely at him. "You are not like the others. Are there as many different races amongst the people of the New World as of the Old?"

Kiiren shrugged. "There are hurraqeth, who are my people, and many nations of your kind, though they are darker of skin and black of hair. No others."

"Hmm." The Queen turned her attention to Mal. "I understand it was your idea to divert the ambassador to Bartholomew Fair, Master Catlyn."

Mal risked a glance upwards, into heavy-lidded bronze eyes as watchful as a hawk's.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"To what end?"

"Sir James is not so well acquainted with the ambassador as I am, Your Majesty. I knew His Excellency would not think well of us if he saw the way we treat those sick in mind."

"You refer to Bethlem Hospital."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"You think Sir James did wrong in this matter?"

"In arranging a visit to Bethlem?"