The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(8)

Mal told him about the commission, leaving out the ignominious nature of his arrival at the Tower.

"And you want me to get you out of it?"

Mal hesitated, wondering how best to put it.

"I know we were not close acquaintances at Cambridge, but we have certain… sympathies in common."

"Go on."

"I also know you and your father are not close. But – he has the ear of Prince Robert. If there is anything you can do, I would be eternally grateful."

"We were never the best of friends, I'll grant you that, Catlyn, but one Peterhouse man looks out for another." Grey leant forward. "I'll see what I can do. And since you are looking for work, I have something that might suit you very well."

"You do?" Mal said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. There was no point getting out of Leland's commission if he could not pay back the advance.

"After you left Cambridge, I fell in with some fellows from Corpus Christi. Tradesmen's sons, mostly, but money poured from their purses like Cam water from a drowned drunk. Well, one that I know of has come home to London and is minded to become a gentleman. I can hardly introduce him at Court, but noblesse oblige…"

"What do you need from me?"

"The fellow needs to be seen in the company of gentlemen, learn a few graces – perhaps the art of the sword?"

"Why does he not hire a fencing-master, if he is so rich?"

Grey shook his head. "I urged him to, but he would have none of it. 'Filthy swiving Italians', he called them, and refused to have them in his house. But a stout Englishman like yourself… Shall I write you a letter of introduction?"

Mal was inclined to refuse. It was bad enough that he had to crawl to the likes of Grey; he had no wish to renew his acquaintance with the sort of men Grey favoured as friends. But it appeared he had little choice.

"Thank you," he said at last. "That would be most generous."

"'Tis trifling. What are friends for?" He waved away the servant offering to refill his goblet. "Where shall I send it?"

"Address it to Deadman's Place, Southwark; first house past Maid Lane. I will be lodging there for the summer."

"You're living in Southwark? God's bones, Catlyn, no wonder you're going nowhere. The sooner you remember who you are and where you belong, the better. I'll have that letter to you by morning. Swear to me you'll take the job, and get yourself some decent lodgings."

Mal made a vague, noncommittal noise. No work for months, then two jobs come along at once – and both of them an uncomfortable link to his past. The Fates were conspiring against him, of that he was certain.

"All right," he said at last. "I'll see this shopkeeper of yours. But I make no promises. I owe no loyalty to you or your friends."

"Oh I think you do," Grey said. "You can wash the blood away, Catlyn, but the stain will always be there. Always."

Contrary to Grey's promises, no letter arrived the next day, nor the day after. Mal was by turns relieved and annoyed. He considered seeking Grey out, but did not want to appear too desperate. In any case, one did not press a duke's son to hurry with his favours.

A week passed, and the matter of the fifty-two shillings still had to be dealt with. So it was that on Midsummer Day, Mal walked up to the gates of Bethlem Hospital with a heavy heart. Every time he came here, he swore it would be the last. Every time…

He rapped on the door set into the tall wooden gates and waited. After several minutes it opened a crack, and the stubble-jawed porter poked his head out.

"What is it?"

"I have your money," Mal said, tapping his pocket.

The porter's eyebrows lifted, and his sneer twisted into an ingratiating smile.

"Come in, sir, come in."

He unbolted the gate and Mal went through into the courtyard, wrinkling his nose at the smell from the nearby cesspit. It was a wonder the patients hadn't all died of plague long ago. Judging by the screams coming from the nearby Abraham Ward, however, they were still very much alive.

"You go right on in, sir," the porter said. "Mistress Cooke will see to you."

He looked expectantly at Mal. who grimaced but gave the man thruppence from his purse, "to oil the hinges of the gate" as the fellow liked to put it. Much as Mal disliked the fact, he would need to come back here at least once more.

"I have to ask for your blade as well, sir," the porter added. "New rules, sir."

"He has become dangerous of late?"

"Lord bless us, no, sir! He's been gentle as a lamb since you was last here." He shook his head. "There was this young gallant, see, showing off to his lady in the Abraham Ward, and one of the inmates got hold of his rapier. Nasty mess, it was, sir. We don't want any more trouble like that."

Mal drew his dagger and handed it to the porter. He was tempted to point out that anyone who thought taunting the insane was a pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon deserved everything he got.

"I trust such visitors are not allowed into my brother's lodgings," he said. "I pay you well to keep him secluded."

"Of course not, sir." The man grinned nervously.

He was lying, of course. The occasional visitors paid for the little luxuries that made the keepers' lives bearable in this vile place. He hoped Sandy had afforded them little entertainment.