The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(84)

"Don't do it for me; do it for him." He started to laugh, but broke off, grimacing. "I've seen the way you look at him," he said through gritted teeth.

Coby felt herself blush. Had she been that obvious?

"You want to be careful with that one, duckling," Parrish put in. "He might surprise you."

Hope warred with frustration in her heart. Best not to think about such things. It was impossible.

"Very well," she said. "What must I do?"

"You can get a message to Mal," Faulkner said. "I can't confess to my real business with Kemp and Armitage, not unless someone with connections can speak up for me."

"But why me? Cannot Master Parrish convey your message?"

Not that an excuse to see Master Catlyn was unwelcome. But there was something else going on here, something Faulkner was not telling her.

Faulkner sighed. "The skraylings took Mal from the Tower on Saturday night."

"What? Took him where?"

"I don't know. Perhaps all the way back to the New World…"

She gaped at him, caught between laughter and tears. "The New World?"

"Not that far, God willing," Parrish put in. "The Admiral's Men are due to play today, so the ambassador must surely be in London yet."

"But he might still be at the camp," Faulkner put in. "You speak their language, Hendricks. You have to go there and warn Mal. Those villains were up to something dreadful; they were too free with their money not to be working for someone very rich and powerful."

"And if he is not at the camp?"

"Then find him, wherever he is, and get a message to him. Lives depend on it, I'm certain."

By midday a persistent drizzle had set in, and the atmosphere in the ambassador's quarters was more dismal than ever.

"Will play go on in rain?" Kiiren said as they went down to the outer ward.

"As long as there's not a downpour," Mal replied. "I fear there's been too much preparation done for anything less to stop it."

"It rains very much in England," Kiiren said mournfully. "Perhaps that is why you think nothing of dirt everywhere."

They arrived at the theatre in good time, before the crush of people assembled at the gate had been let in, and were shown upstairs. Usually the most honoured guests sat on the stage itself, but Mal feared this was too close to both the actors and the audience for safety. Instead the ambassador's party were accommodated in a side gallery, separated from the paying audience by a sturdy oak door. A table had been set with cold meats and a silver flagon of wine, and cushioned chairs placed to get a perfect view.

"Sir Leland tells me this play is called Locrine," Kiiren said to Mal, "and is history of your people."

"I have not heard it played, but I understand it tells the story of the founding of London by the Trojans, many centuries ago," Mal replied.

"Trojans?"

"People of Troy."

"Ah, yes, I have heard tale of great horse. Is that in play?"

Mal shrugged. "I have not read much history, and never learnt Greek. I regret to say I neglected my studies a great deal."

It had been hard to concentrate on the niceties of Latin rhetoric when all he could think about was Sandy. His brother had not been able to join him in college, not after that dreadful night in the hills.

He realised Kiiren had asked him another question.

"Sorry, sir. What did you say?"

"You studied at… What is word?"

"University?"

"University, yes."

Mal nodded. "Cambridge."

They spoke of libraries and lectures, astronomy and music, but he steered the conversation away from his own sudden departure. If the ambassador did not already know his family history, Mal was not about to tell him now.

In the yard below, servants laid down straw to soak up the worst of the rain, carried piles of cushions to the lords' galleries, or ran back and forth on unknown errands. Three archways at the back of the stage led to the tiring house, and the occasional billow of a curtain or raised voice from within hinted at the frenzy of nervous preparation going on inside.

After about half an hour a small group of men entered the yard and made their way up to the gallery where the ambassador was seated. At the head of the group was the admiral himself, patron of this theatre company. Effingham greeted Kiiren with the same blunt courtesy as on their first meeting, and asked after his health.

Also amongst the party was a thin, stooped figure whose richly coloured brocade doublet and hose contrasted grotesquely with his sallow, wasted features: Lord Brooke, former English ambassador to Venice. He was seldom at court owing to frequent bouts of illness, and Mal was surprised to see him here today. Perhaps he came to discuss diplomacy with Kiiren, under cover of the drama contest.

A rising hubbub from beyond the gates told of a gathering crowd. At last a shrill trumpet sounded in the street and the gates swung open. A multicoloured torrent of people surged through the opening: apprentices in blue, burghers in wine red or rusty brown, rakes in their slashed and embroidered doublets, and of course the whores in their tawdry gowns of scarlet and buttercup yellow. The groundlings jostled for places in the yard, the aldermen and their wives paid their extra pennies for admittance to the galleries and a cushion for their municipal rears. Serving-men stood at the doorways with bottles of beer and baskets piled with bags of hazelnuts. Mal was a little surprised they weren't selling the popped corn he had tried at the fair, though in truth it was more fit for throwing at bad actors than for eating.